


Cracks in the World

by sparrow2000



Series: Cracks in the World [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow2000/pseuds/sparrow2000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a pre-season 1 AU. Xander is aware of Sunnydale’s underbelly and Giles has just arrived in town. Things are about to get a little complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cracks in the  World: Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** : Disturbing imagery in later chapters  
>  **Disclaimer** : Joss and Mutant Enemy et al own everything. I own nothing apart from my original characters  
>  **Beta extraordinaire as always** : thimaz. Thank you love, for being generous with your time, your feedback and for allowing me to bend your ear.  
> Comments are petted and called George. You can either leave it here or on the chapter entries at my [Live Journal](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Cracks%20in%20the%20World&filter=all)  
> British spelling throughout because that's where I'm from... *g*

**Cracks in the World: Prologue**

Xander shivered as he scrambled down the steep, grassy banking and turned into the shadows under the last arch of the old stone railway bridge. He couldn’t say why he shivered. It wasn’t exactly cold, and the heavy plaid over-shirt he wore would keep him warm, whatever the weather. If pressed, he would admit that he always shivered at this point in his daily journey. He had been doing it for so long that the climb down the banking, and the almost imperceptible pause on the edge of the shadows, had become his own personal Pavlovian bell. If he prodded the thought a bit further, he would also admit that the shiver came and went in the space of a heartbeat, as if his body was reminding him that ‘here be dragons’, before his brain whispered that the dragons knew he was there.

The sidewalk on other side of the archway, on the path that led back into town, was still blocked off so pedestrians didn’t trip over the broken paving slabs that had been dug up by city hall nearly three weeks before, but he didn’t need to go that far. Half way through the archway, he turned right and approached a narrow, dark door that sat far back in the curve of the wall under the banking. He looked around quickly before walking into the gloom beyond the door, plunging out of the fading warmth of the late summer evening and into the tunnels - into a world that only a few people knew was there.

In his childhood he had walked the old railroad tracks above his head. Balancing from one rail to another as he’d followed the path of a thousand ghostly trains that had travelled the line to the steel mill that had once flourished on the edge of town. But the mill had closed years before. All that remained were the rusty remnants of tracks, and decaying railroad ties that were overgrown and abandoned. The first time he’d scrambled off the tracks and down the banking he’d been ten and had followed a small, grey cat, lured on by the sound of a tiny bell and the plaintive mew of a creature in need, just as he had been himself. But his quarry had disappeared under the arches and left no trace behind. He realised later that the cat had had entrée into a world he hadn’t known existed then. Looking back, he understood that the tunnels had been there all the time, unchanging through the years, as if they’d been waiting for him to leave childhood behind and come home.

He ran his hand along the damp stonework, the result of decades of leakage from the bridge and the banking above, and the scrape of his fingers sounded loud in his head - percussion in the quiet gloom. His feet splashed through small puddles left from the previous night’s unseasonal rain, where it had seeped through the cracks in the arched ceiling. Moss clung to the wall; he could smell it, green and damp, evidence that life was possible, even in the most desolate places.

Trudging on, his footsteps echoed in the empty tunnel, running counterpoint to the sound of his finger nails running along the stone. Gradually, it became less magnified, less self conscious, as other noises joined in the sudden symphony of sound - a dog barked, a small child laughed and a ball thumped, thumped, thumped as it was thrown against a wall. They were familiar sounds, comforting in their normality and a hundred different versions of them had kept him company on his daily journey for the past four years. The tunnel suddenly turned sharply to the left and opened out into a wider, circular space and he paused to warm his hands at the bonfire that always burned there. He catalogued the origins of the sounds – the dog was sniffing at the wood stacked up to feed the bonfire, a small girl, dressed in a bright red jacket and shiny black boots was standing in the corner, facing the wall, and he caught glimpses of a small green ball, going in and out of view as it hit the old stone and bounced up and back, up and back, up and back.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was one minute to six. Most people were safe at home, their doors locked, lights on and dinner on the table. But here in the tunnels that followed the line of the old railway, in the cracks in the world, Xander wasn’t most people and it was time for him to go to work.


	2. Cracks in the World: Chapter 1

**Cracks in the World: Chapter 1**

It was funny, Xander always thought the outside of the shop should be more. More window space, more light, more ambience, just more. But it wasn’t. It was a doorway, with a small, square window on the left-hand side. Nothing more. There wasn’t even a sign. He had wondered about that, at the start. But over the days and months and years that marked the milestones and the boundaries of his life, he’d come to understand. Why would there be a sign? The people who needed the service, who needed the goods that the shop could offer, would already know where to come. Maps, he had come to realise, were a useless commodity in the tunnels. Why would you need a map when you already knew the destination? If you didn’t know your destination, then even a map wouldn’t help.

These were the cyclical question that ran through his head as he approached the narrow door, just like he’d done a hundred times before in these too long, too short, fragmented years. It had taken him the longest time to accept that his questions would remain unanswered. The tentative, growing bolder suggestions and queries and opinions of a puppyish boy growing towards adulthood, were like rain on barren, desolate ground. They lay on the surface of unyielding soil and gradually evaporated, drop by curious drop. New thoughts and ideas were not welcome behind this door or in the tunnels. He now knew better than to open his mouth unbidden.

Pushing the door open, he stepped over the threshold, hearing the tinkle of the small bell that hung above it. He closed the door quietly, making sure it was sealed tight against the cold air of the early evening. Turning around, he walked into the body of the shop, noting that the scarred wooden counter needed dusting and the old fashioned cash register could do with a polish. He knew that would be one of his tasks for the evening, perhaps when he got his break and there were no other chores to attend to. Taking off his over-shirt, he hung it neatly on the ugly wooden coat-stand that stood sentinel in the corner of the room. Outerwear safely lodged, he reached for the brown, thin cotton jacket hanging on another peg, slipped his arms through the sleeves and buttoned up the three buttons. Finally, he tugged at the hem around his hips, ensuring that any creases disappeared. A narrow mirror hung on the wall next to the stand and he took a couple of small side steps until he could see his reflection in the glass. The boy that stared back was medium tall, with a probable growth spurt still to come, dark, almost black, collar length hair and a tan paler than it should be at the end of a Californian summer. The brown, hip length work jacket covered a narrow chest and faded jeans with a fraying cuff on one leg were matched by a pair of dirty white sneakers that had seen better days. It wasn’t a bad body, Xander decided. It wasn’t great, either, but it was his, the only one he had to work with and when it came to it, that was all that mattered. He wondered fleetingly what the reflection saw when it looked back, but that was a thought for another time, he’d already spent too long wool-gathering and he knew that he would have to make up the time if he was late.

Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he turned and crossed to the narrow doorway at the back of the room that was covered by a thick wool curtain hanging from battered brass rings. He drew the curtain back, listening to the clatter of metal as the rings slid along the rod screwed into the door frame. He took a step forward and paused, twitching the curtain back into place behind him. The room was lined with deep shelves and bolts of fabric filled every one. Each bolt was laid on green baize lining and spaced exactly six inches apart so that no edges ever touched. Out of habit he counted the shelves, and a part of his mind wondered what would happen if one day he got a different number from all the times before. It didn’t happen. The shelves were as constant as the tunnels, and the shop, and the slide of the old brass rings on the curtain pole at the entrance to the work room – there were ten, running from a foot above the floor to one foot below the ceiling on the left wall, each one divided into four separate cubbyholes. The back wall was the same number high, but each one was only divided into two, to accommodate the narrowness of the room. Then there was the right hand wall. There were only five shelves from floor to ceiling, each one double height with no division into cubbyholes. This was where the most expensive material was laid out on blue silk-lined wood.

His inventory complete and the constants in his life re-established, Xander nodded his greeting to the old man who sat at the ancient sewing machine that was fixed to the workbench in the centre of the room. He didn’t get a response, but he didn’t expect one. He’d learned early that tailoring was a quiet profession and he’d come to accept that the squeak, squeak, squeak of the sewing machine treadle and the sound of scissors cutting cloth were the main sounds that made up the fabric of his working life. Skirting the edge of the work bench, he walked to the stool at the end and picked up his work basket, which was just where he’d left it the evening before. He picked up his needle and mending and began to sew.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been working when the bell over the door rang again. He tended to lose himself in the rhythm of the work – push and pull, tuck and gather. Sometimes he’d spend an entire evening in a trance, working on a hem, or a cuff, or anything else that his employer decided was suitable for his skills. Right now, he shook off the hypnotic feeling that sewing induced and watched the tailor rise with surprising speed, push through the curtain and out into the front of the shop. Xander wriggled slightly on his stool, shifting his weight, and settled down to try and listen to the conversation going on next door, but the voices were too low to catch anything significant.

“Boy!” The voice from the front of the shop rose from its previous whisper. The tone was gruff and Xander put his work carefully back into the basket and hurried through to the front part of the shop. The tailor stood next to a customer and Xander paused on the threshold, recognising the mayor even from the back. He nervously smoothed down his jacket.

He stood quietly, watching as the tailor pinned and pulled at the soft, dark blue wool that Xander knew came from the top range of their non-special fabrics. He studied the scene, observing the strong, gnarled fingers tugging at the edge of the cloth, chalking in the arcane symbols of his ancient trade. The old man’s glasses perched on the end of his nose and Xander watched him squint as the pining and chalk-work continued. Xander had always thought of the tailor as ageless; he had the kind of face that had probably looked the same at 35 as it had at 55 and Xander couldn’t be sure that he shouldn’t put a one hundred in front of that figure. In the scheme of things, here in the tunnels where the setting of a perfect stitch and the discretion of a tailor and a tailor’s boy to a discerning clientele were the most important things to keep in mind, a mundane thing such as aging seemed almost unworthy of comment. But for all that, Xander couldn’t help thinking that tonight, the tailor was looking old.

The startling revelation brought his thoughts to a crashing stop. For the first time in he didn’t know how long, Xander studied the tailor as if he was seeing him for the first time. The old man was of medium height, with a narrow face that normally wore an expression of benign exasperation when he was looking at Xander, or deferential bonhomie when dealing with customers. A bright red waistcoat hung baggily over a grey work shirt and dark, corduroy clad legs ended in blue velvet slippers that covered surprisingly small feet. Xander’s eyes travelled back up, watching the hands move as they continued their delicate work – it was hypnotic, like watching an artist paint, and he had to force his brain to continue its inventory. The tailor’s hair was a non-descript grey and a second pair of slightly thicker lensed glasses were perched precariously on the top of his head. In summary, he was an innocuous looking man, save for the small eccentricities like wearing his slippers at work, but as he turned and pinned Xander with a sharp gaze, Xander reminded himself that he didn’t tolerate slacking, or daydreaming, or anything else that got in the way of the work that needed to be done each evening. Slacking merited a clip around the ear or a withering look, or word. Diligence, on the other hand, brought him a small pay packet at the end of every two weeks and the lure of learning new skills when he’d done particularly well in one of his tasks.

The tailor didn’t pause in his work when he spoke. “Hand me the blue chalk,” he said.

Xander hurried forward and picked up the stick of chalk from the tin on the counter and laid it in the tailor’s outstretched palm. He wasn’t sure why he’d been asked to come out from the back room to fetch an item that was already within easy reach, but as with so many things in his life, he didn’t question, he just obeyed. Life was simpler that way. He wondered if he should return to his work, but in the absence of specific instructions, he stood where he was, silent and attentive as the old man made a few, final adjustments to the fine wool, skilful hands smoothing down the cloth with loving care, before he took a step back from the mayor. Xander watched as the tailor surveyed his handiwork, then invited the mayor to step towards the large, oval mirror that stood in the corner of the room, next to an old tailor's dummy that was swathed in black silk.

This was the bit that Xander never grew tired of. He watched the mayor stand in front of the mirror, the new coat full of darts, and pins, and chalk, but when a broad smile crept across his face, Xander knew that the mirror had worked its magic and was showing him what the finished coat would look like. The mayor turned back to the tailor and shook his hand enthusiastically, then carefully slipped off the half finished coat and handed it back to the tailor, who passed it to Xander with a frown to ensure that Xander treated it with care.

Xander bridled slightly at the unspoken implication that he would be careless, but held his peace. The tailor helped the mayor shrug his arms into an equally fine, light summer jacket, then they both turned around.

“Alexander, my boy, it’s a pleasure to see you,” the mayor said. “It’s been a while.”

Glancing quickly at the tailor, Xander nodded. “I’m fine, thank you Mr Mayor. It’s nice to see you too.”

The mayor smiled genially. “And your parents, they're well?”

“Yes, sir,” Xander replied.

“Excellent. That’s what I like to hear. You’re an outstanding example of what hard work and a little self discipline can achieve. Some of the more rebellious parts of your school could do a lot worse than follow your example. You’ve got yourself into a trade, with a good Master, and you respect your elders and betters. What more could society ask of a young man?”

“Thank you, sir.” Xander wasn’t sure that most of his classmates would agree with the mayor’s assessment, but he wasn’t going to tell the man that.

“What age are you now?” the mayor asked.

“Fifteen, sir. Almost sixteen.”

“Fifteen,” the mayor whistled and the sound skittered down Xander’s backbone like nails on a blackboard. “I remember when you were just a skinny little boy. Doesn’t time fly when you’re happy in your work? Fifteen feels like a very long time ago to me. I bet you can’t even imagine being my age?”

Xander smiled tentatively. He had no idea what to say.

“And you’ll be sixteen soon. That’s a big age for a young man. You’ll be a fine addition to Sunnydale society.”

“Yes, sir,” Xander said again

“Excellent. Anyway, I can’t stand here gassing all day, pleasurable as it would be. I’ll get you into trouble with your Master.” The mayor clapped Xander on the shoulder, then turned back to the tailor. “A privilege as always,” he said. “I know I can always depend on you for quality craftsmanship.” He smiled broadly and took one step towards the door, before pausing and turning around. “I almost forgot,” he said to the tailor. “I mentioned your skills to an old acquaintance of mine who may be in the market for some custom work. He’ll be in town for a few weeks, so you might get a visit from him. Dollfus is his name. I’ve given him directions on how to find you, so I’ll leave you to decide whether you think you can help him out.”

Smiling again, the mayor turned on his heel and left the shop, the small bell tinkling to indicate his passing.

The tailor stood for a moment, his head tilted slightly to one side, as if he was listening to something only he could hear, and then he turned to Xander, took the half-finished garment out of his hands and walked towards the workshop without a word. Pushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, Xander sighed and followed him back through the curtain. Sitting back down on the stool, he picked up his needle and thread and let the hypnotic sound of the sewing machine treadle seep into his bones as he went back to work.


	3. Cracks in the World: Chapter 2

**Cracks in the World: Chapter 2**

Rupert Giles wasn’t sure what to make of Sunnydale. It was everything he had expected and so much that he hadn’t. The contradiction bothered his ordered mind. The weather was as warm as anyone had any right to demand at the end of a Californian summer and the people he had dealt with in passing, like his landlord, the removal people and the post man, had been curious and pushy about his business, his accent and more or less anything that looked or sounded alien to them. That was all as he’d expected. As he’d been told to expect. Americans were forward and so different from the British concept of proper behavior. But for all that, there was something off about the town that he could only put down to the Hellmouth’s influence. People seemed oblivious to their surroundings, to the extent of their foolhardiness. Courting couples walked by cemeteries after dark. The local paper wrote countless editorials about the sad loss of yet another young life to the threat of gangs, drugs and moral degeneration, but apparently no one could add two and two together and come up with a number that made any sense. It was bewildering, but he wondered, if he was not aware of the supernatural and the special place Sunnydale held in its world, whether he too would be as blind.

“Mr Giles.” A girl’s voice cut into his reverie. “Mr Giles?”

He pulled his attention back to the present and the deceptively mundane location of the school library. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid you caught me with my thoughts elsewhere." He smiled at the teenage girl standing by the reading table, a large book in her hand. “What can I do for you, Miss Rosenberg?”

“This book on the Civil War,” she waved the book in his general direction as if he wouldn’t understand what she was talking about if she didn’t. “Does it get filed under military history or American history?” She paused. “For some reason there doesn’t seem to be a shelf for American military history, which is kind of weird.”

Giles smiled faintly. “Far be it from me to decry the filing criteria of my predecessor, but I do think that there is a considerable amount of work to be done in recategorising some of the library books. It may take some time.”

“I could help, if you like?” she replied. “I like this library. It’s a nice place to study. But Mr Charleson, our last librarian, didn’t really bother with the whole Dewey Decimal system. He wasn’t really a librarian, but he was a really nice man and he let me use the library after hours for studying. I was really sad when he died…” she tailed off. “You can call me Willow, if you like.”

“Yes, well - ” Giles started, wondering if he dared ask what had happened to his predecessor, but she interrupted before he could gather his thoughts.

“So, are you settling in? I mean, have you got an apartment yet? Although, I guess you must have, or you’d be living in a hotel or motel. Not that there’s anything wrong with living in a motel, but the whole living out of a suitcase would be annoying after a while. Or at least I guess so.” She smiled at him brightly and he found it impossible not to smile back.

“I imagine hotel living would become tedious after a very short time. Fortunately, I was able to find a flat fairly quickly, so my suitcase is no longer acting as my wardrobe.”

She nodded. “Yeah, there always seem to be ‘for rent’ signs around, so it’s good that it worked in your favour. Is it a nice apartment? I mean flat.” she said with a blush.

“It’s very pleasant, thank you for asking” Giles replied. “Miss Rosenberg, 'apartment' is a perfectly acceptable term to use. You don’t have to use my terminology, just because I do. To me, I have rented a flat, because culturally, that is what I would call it. However, from your perspective, it is an apartment. Don’t feel you have to modify your language to suit your audience, unless there is a very good reason for you to do so. And this is not one of those occasions.”

“Okay,” she said and Giles studied her, wondering if the quick acquiescence and air of eager to please was a persona for teachers, or something that had altogether deeper roots.

“Good,” he said. “We are in accord. So you can expect that I will say pavement, biscuits and lift, and you will say sidewalk, cookies and elevator. We will both know what the other means without surrendering anything of our intrinsic identities. For the same reason, I will continue to call you Miss Rosenberg, despite your extremely generous offer. Is that agreeable?”

Um, sure,” she replied quickly. “I mean, yes, of course.”

“So that’s settled then.” Giles glanced at his watch. “Now I am conscious that this is your free time, but if I may impose on your good will a little longer?”

“Sure,” she said. “I didn’t have anything planned today. My best friends are either away at camp or probably working, so I’m really happy to help. And I get to see what’s in the new intake of books, before the new semester starts, which is really neat.”

Laughing softly, Giles picked up one of the books on the table and ran his hand along the spine, before putting it back down. “I have a feeling you are destined to be a bibliophile, Miss Rosenberg. I wish more young people turned to books for answers to their questions, rather than the distressing trend of using technology as the answer to everything.”

“Don’t you like computers?” Willow asked.

“I believe they have their place, but I don’t believe that place is in the library.” Giles noticed the way the brightness of her smile seemed to dim and he cursed inwardly. “I’m afraid my luddite qualities have offended you.” He paused, wondering if he should explain what luddite meant.

“No, no,” she said hastily. “I mean, I love books and computers and I don’t think they’re incompatible. But just because I think that, doesn’t mean I think everyone else has to agree. That would be kind of arrogant of me and I’d hate you to think I’m arrogant, because I’m really not. It’s like you said about you saying ‘flat’ and me saying ‘apartment’. We can use different words and still get along. So I like books and computers, and you like books, and my best friends only like computers, but even then, they only like them for playing games on. Not for doing anything useful. But then, they’re both teenage boys, so really, what can you expect?” She paused, her eyes huge. “And you were a teenage boy once and I really didn’t mean to imply –”

“It’s all right,” Giles interrupted. His head spun from the flow of words and he hoped his charge, when she arrived, was a little more reserved, but she was also from California, so he didn’t hold out much hope. “I was indeed a teenage boy, once upon a time. I dimly remember what it was like and you are quite right to be dismissive of some of their thought processes. They will, however, get over it in time.”

She giggled and he smiled back. “But that’s for the future. Back to today, if you are sure you have no other plans; I’d appreciate your enthusiasm and your help. There are some boxes of text books in the book storage room on the second floor.” He pulled a key ring out of his jacket pocket and after a little effort, slid one key off and handed it to her. “If you wouldn’t mind opening up the boxes and simply stacking the books up according to subject matter, I can deal with them over the next few days.”

Clasping the key tightly in her palm she nodded. “I can do that,” she said. “It shouldn’t take that long.”

“I fear it may take longer than you think. It would be quicker with two sets of hands, but I really must continue trying to make sense of the current filing system and see what I can do to correct it.”

“Leave it to me, Mr Giles.” She smiled again and turned to leave the library.

“And Miss Rosenberg,” he called as she reached the door. She turned and looked at him inquiringly. “Please don’t attempt to lift any of the heavier boxes. If you need to move something, please come and get me. I’m sure your parents would not be impressed if I let you get hurt while you were helping me.”

Laughing, she shook her head. “Don’t worry Mr Giles. We Sunnydale teenagers are tougher than we look. I’ll be fine.” With another small grin she turned and Giles listened to her footsteps echo down the corridor. He heard a fire door open and shut as she headed for the second floor.

Don’t worry, he thought. So easy for her to say. So bright and enthusiastic, her thirst for knowledge shone though with every anxious, eager to please word. He sat down in a chair by the big central table and stared at the door. Is that what he might have been like if he hadn’t always known that the monsters were real? That vampires and zombies, succubi and incubi, and everything a child ever dreaded was under the bed, was real.

With the image of the bubbly teenager at the forefront of his mind he realised, in a moment of clarity, that the two sides of Sunnydale weren’t contradictory at all. The sunshine and the darkness were two sides of the same coin and the obliviousness that had exasperated him only a short time before fell away. He wanted to ensure that she kept that innocence. That her brightness would never be tainted by darker knowledge. It was his job to ensure that never happened.


	4. Cracks in the World: Chapter 3

**Cracks in the World: Chapter 3**

The school yard was quiet, as it should be in the days before the start of a new semester. Every year the summer seemed to get shorter and the new school year seemed to arrive more quickly, but one thing Xander could depend on was that the grounds around the school would be empty and quiet. He wished school was this peaceful all the time. Cutting across the corner of the grass, he skirted the edge of the basket ball court and hurried along the back of the main building. He wasn’t sure why he hurried. He wasn’t in any particular rush and there was no one in sight to bother him. It was probably habit. School yards were battlefields, where the unwary and the weak could be caught like mice in a trap. He had too much experience of avoiding the attention of school yard cats not to realise that just because there was no one there, didn’t mean the danger wasn’t real.

He rounded the corner of the building, heading for the path that ran between the gym and the annex that housed the arts and drama classes, when the sound of a window opening in the peace of the afternoon made him pause. He looked around warily.

“Xander,” a voice called from his left and he felt the tightness in his belly loosen at the sound. Taking a breath he turned and smiled, looking up at Willow who was leaning out of a window on the second floor. “Xander," she said again. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself. What are you up to?” He walked a few steps forward across the neatly cut grass and stopped, close enough for conversation, but far enough away that he wouldn’t get a crick in his neck looking up at her. “You do know school doesn’t start for another couple of weeks? I know you can’t wait, but this kind of eagerness is disturbing. It’s like a condition or something and I don’t want you giving it to me.” He took a step back, then pointed up at her. “I bet you can get ointment for it, or maybe one of those alternative remedies, like hypnotherapy, or acupuncture, or something.”

Brushing her hair back from her face, she smiled down at him. “I’m not sure about letting people stick pins in me. It’s a little too much like voodoo for my liking and really, Sunnydale isn’t the place for letting people do stuff like that.” She sighed theatrically. “I guess I’m just going to have to stay sick.”

He nodded solemnly and stuck his hands in his pockets. “It’s a valid lifestyle choice, so long as it’s your choice and not, say, mine. So at the risk of being nosy, why are you in school when you don’t actually have to be there?

“I’m helping the new librarian. You know Mr Charleson… well, you know Mr Charleson isn’t here anymore? So we’ve got someone new. Mr Giles. He’s English. And really proper.” She looked behind her, as if making sure no one was there, then leaned forward, resting her arms on the sill. “And he’s kind of cute,” she stage whispered. “In a buttoned down, stuffy, librariany kind of a way.”

Rocking back on his heels, Xander grinned. “Willow’s got a cru-ush, Willow’s got a big crush…” he sing-songed, his grin getting wider by the moment.

“I do not,” she said loftily, straightening up. Then she stuck out her tongue, spoiling the effect. “I can appreciate that someone is good looking without getting all girly about it.”

“Sure you can,” he drawled. “Keep telling yourself that. So what’s the deal? You’re just helping this poor, helpless, fine figure of a British man out of the goodness of your Willowy heart?”

“Well, not entirely. Principal Flutie called my mom. He asked if I would do it. He said there would be extra credit, so of course my mom said yes.”

“Got to love a parent with a work ethic.”

“I guess,” she said slowly, her smile fading as she spoke. “So where are you off to? Being on school grounds when you don’t have to be isn’t exactly your style.”

“Being on school grounds, even when I do have to be, isn’t my style.”

“I know.” She leaned forward a little further, her eyes wide. “You could come in and help if you like?” she said, and Xander hunched his shoulders at the eager tone in her voice. “You could meet Mr Giles,” she continued. “Be like Old Man River and tote that barge and lift that bale, only obviously it would be boxes of books and there wouldn’t be any of the unfortunate racial and slavery connotations, but you know what I mean.”

“Willow,” he started, but stopped abruptly when he heard another voice calling.

“Miss Rosenberg, are you there?” A distinctly English voice carried on the still afternoon air.

“I think someone wants you,” Xander said.

“Ah, there you are. I wondered if you needed any help. I feel I have rather left you to your own devices.”

Willow shifted until she was standing at right angles to the window and even in profile from two floors down, Xander could see her face composing itself into the anxious, eager to please expression she always wore in the presence of authority. It was the expression he’d borrowed in the early days of working for the tailor, when he’d still had to consciously think about being seen and not heard. These days it was second nature when he was at work, but he made sure that it was a look that only the tailor and his clients ever saw.

Xander watched as a tall man came into view and stopped, framed in a window several feet from where Willow stood, as if the newcomer did not want to get too close. The late afternoon sun glanced off the glass in the windows, making it difficult for Xander to get a proper look, but he got the impression not just of height, but of solidity, good posture and a strange sense of readiness that he couldn’t quite describe.

Willow took a step forward, drawing Xander’s attention back to her and he took a couple of steps forward himself to properly hear the conversation.

“Mr Giles,” she said. “I’m fine. I’m sorry, I’m nearly finished unpacking these boxes. Then you can decide which books you want in the library and which ones can stay here in the store room.” She glanced out of the window and then back at the librarian. “I just stopped for a minute. I was talking to Xander,” she continued, waving a hand in his general direction, causing Mr Giles turn and look out of the window. “Xander Harris,” she clarified. “He goes here too. We’ve been friends since kindergarten. I was just explaining to him that I was helping you sort out some of your books. That you’d just arrived and were going to be our new school librarian.”

The librarian inclined his head briefly in what Xander could only assume was a very understated British acknowledgement that he was there, before turning back towards Willow. “Yes of course,” he said. I appreciate you giving up your free time to help me. If you’d rather take time to catch up with Mr, Mr Harris, I do, of course, understand.”

“No, no it’s fine,” she replied. “Xander and I can catch up any time. Isn’t that right Xan?” she said with a pleading look in his direction.

“Sure, Willow,” he said with a grin. “I’ve got to hustle anyway. I’m just using the school yard as a short cut. I’ve got some errands to run for my dad before I head out for work. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, maybe? I’ll swing by your house around dinner time, since I’m pulling the afternoon shift tomorrow. Maybe I can get your mom to feed me if I look pathetic enough.”

“Are you sure you want her feeding you?” Willow asked with a smile. “She’s just started a new health kick. It’s all tofu and bean sprouts. My dad really isn’t impressed.”

“I’m not surprised. Maybe I’ll just make sure I grab a pack of Twinkies before I come by. If your dad is lucky, I might even slip him one when your mom’s back’s turned.”

“You’re a bad influence, Xander Harris,” she said with a giggle, then stopped abruptly and glanced over at Mr Giles who was watching the exchange with the kind of detached politeness that spoke volumes about their age difference and the cultural chasm of their upbringings.

With years of Willow watching behind him Xander realised she was about to panic about ignoring a teacher and decided on a pre-emptive strike. “You’re going to get your library privileges cut for letting me distract you, Willow.” He turned his attention to the librarian before Willow could say anything. “It was nice to meet you, Mr Giles.”

“Mr Harris,” the librarian nodded and his hand came up to brush against the edge of his glasses.

“I’ll see you Willow,” Xander said. “Be careful you don’t burn through all the new books before school starts. You need to leave yourself something to do for the rest of the semester.”

She laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind. Go run your errands, then get to work, okay.”

“Yes maam,” he said. “Maybe we could go to the Bronze tomorrow night. Get our freak on.” He grinned at the shooing motion Willow was making with her hands, and with a wave of his own he turned away, retracing his steps across the grass to the concrete pathway. As he walked, he had the oddest feeling that there was someone watching, but when he turned back, all the windows were empty and there was no one to be seen. He surveyed the open lawn around the school and the shadows created by the buildings and the tall trees at the edge of the pathways, but there was no-one there. He glanced back up at the open window on the second floor then shrugged off his feelings of unease, putting it down to Sunnydale strangeness, shoved his hands in his pockets and carried on his way.


	5. Cracks in the World: Chapter 4

**Cracks in the World: Chapter 4**

Business at the shop was quiet. Xander glanced surreptitiously at his watch, careful not to catch the tailor’s attention and lay himself open to an accusation of clock watching or slacking. Even though the old man was front of house, he seemed to have a sixth sense when Xander did something he shouldn’t and would suddenly appear where he hadn’t been a second before. There had only been two customers since Xander had started work. Not that he’d seen them; he was closeted in the workroom as was normal, his basket of work at his feet and a needle and thread in his hand. But the bell on the front door had chimed four times, signaling two sets of entrances and departures.

The bell rang again and the sound of measured footsteps and soft conversation filtered through from the front of the shop and told him that the delicate dance of customer welcome had begun again. His fingers worked automatically as he thought of all the times he’d seen the tailor meet a client. There was always a formal bow, followed by an invitation to sit and take refreshments. Small talk followed and business was never discussed until courtesies had been exchanged and tea had been drunk. Xander understood the need to be polite to a new customer, but the twelve year old boy he’d been at the start had been puzzled by the continued ritual with repeat customers. When he’d tentatively broached the subject, the tailor had shaken his head and told him that that was why he was the Master and Xander the servant. Chuckling quietly at the memory, Xander realised that many variations on the same statement had been repeated over the years and would no doubt be repeated in the years to come.

He continued to work and gradually a smooth hem on the fine wool coat the mayor had commissioned took shape and he paused briefly to run his fingers over the fabric, enjoying the feel of the expensive material under his hand. He knew that this was the closest he would ever come to a coat this fine, but then, he couldn’t imagine a time when he would ever need one. He gave the cloth a final pat and returned to his sewing. Through the curtain he could hear the clink of bone china as the old fashioned tea tray was assembled and his fingers placed stitch after careful stitch as he pictured the tailor offering sugar from fine silver tongs and lemon from a small Chinese jar he kept just for that purpose. Seconds ticked by, turning into minutes, measured by the push and pull of the needle and thread and the soft ebb and flow of voices on the other side of the curtain. It was hypnotic and he let himself drift as his fingers continued their delicate dance.

The sound of brass rings rattling on the metal curtain pole brought his head up and his hand stilled as the tailor entered the workroom. Xander waited for the old man to issue instructions or inspect his work, but the tailor just frowned at him and stepped aside, allowing the stranger at his back to enter. Xander hadn’t heard the bell ring again, so he assumed that the man was the client who had just taken tea.

The newcomer was tall and thin. He was neatly, but not formally dressed, in dress pants and an open necked silk shirt covered by a light linen jacket. Xander noticed that his shoes were shiny, but the ends of his shoelaces were frayed. It was unusual for the tailor to bring a client into the workroom when Xander was there and in the absence of any obvious cues he sat still, his hands in his lap, the needle caught between finger and thumb as he covertly watched the stranger stroll a few paces into the room, stop and look around. Xander knew he should keep his eyes respectfully down, but he risked a quick glance upwards and his gaze was caught as the stranger paused in his survey. The man’s eyes were calculating and Xander felt like he had been weighed, measured and catalogued, all in a split second, before the moment passed and the man turned to glance back at the tailor with a small chuckle. “I’m impressed with the condition of your workshop,” he said. “I’m firmly of the mind that excellent work begins with the right environment. It gives even substandard raw materials the chance to shine, don’t you think?”

Xander forced back a shiver and looked down at the soft wool in his lap. He petted the fabric and it felt strangely comforting under his hand.

“However,” the stranger continued, “I don’t believe any of your materials would be found wanting. Not if your reputation is anything to go by. Mayor Wilkins spoke very highly of you and he is a man who knows the value of a good craftsman.” He chuckled again. “I believe he’s been in Sunnydale long enough to know all its hidden treasures.”

The tailor bowed slightly. “His worship is a good client, Mr Dollfus. I’ve made many things for him over the years,” he replied. “I’ve also been here a long time. This is my business and my clients come back. In one way or another, they always come back.”

“It must be gratifying to have such dedicated followers. I believe I may become one myself, if you can fulfill my needs with this commission.”

Mr Dollfus. Xander remembered the mayor mentioning him needing some custom work and regardless of the practical consideration that a new client was good for business, Xander had an irrational hope that the tailor would refuse to take the job. There was an edge of a sneer in the man’s voice that was unsettling, despite his polite words and Xander could feel his nails digging into his palm as his hand curled into a fist. He watched the tailor take a few paces forward, his slippered feet quiet on the unpolished wooden floor. Xander held his breath.

“I’m confident we can be of service,” the tailor said. “Let me show you what I have in stock. If there is nothing that fits your needs, I am sure I can procure it. And of course, you don’t need to make up your mind right away. If you would like to select any possibilities that catch your eye, I can send my boy with some samples to your home and you can choose between them at your leisure.”

“Good customer service is such a pleasure to receive.” Mr Dollfus took a few languid steps forward and paused just behind Xander’s stool. “Giving is over-rated, don’t you think?” he said. “It’s always so much more pleasurable to receive.”

This time Xander couldn’t hold back his shiver.

“Boy,” the tailor said sharply. Xander looked up and saw that he was frowning. “Leave that for now and go wash up the tea tray and put the kettle back on the burner. We will have another cup when the gentleman and I have finished our business.

Nodding, Xander folded the mayor’s coat across his lap and placed it carefully back in the basket at his feet. He stood, smoothed his work jacket down and walked quickly out of the workshop, past the tailor, pulling the curtain back in place behind him. He didn’t look back.

The teapot, cups and saucers were laid out on the counter. Gathering them onto the tray, he crossed to the small sink unit hidden behind the lacquered screen at the other end of the room and ran the tap until the water flowed warm. He couldn’t remember it ever running hot. He slowly rinsed the cups, saucers and silver spoons and emptied the teapot of the swollen tea leaves. He lifted the delicate crockery and dried it gently, because any breakages would make his wage packet even lighter for months to come.

The tea tray reassembled and put back on the countertop, he filled the kettle and set it on the burner, calculating that by the time the tailor had completed his business, the water would have boiled and cooled just enough to make an acceptable pot of tea. The timing, of course, depended on how long Mr Dollfus took to look through the stock. He had a feeling that the man would not be easy to please, but he hoped that the tailor had fabric that he liked so Xander wouldn't have to play errand boy and take him more samples. He struck a match, held it to the burner until it caught, then turned around, contemplating the wool curtain, wondering what was happening in the workroom beyond. He wished for a moment that he had x-ray vision, like some of the super heroes in the comics he hoarded, so he could see what was happening, but he didn’t. He was normal in a world that was not. So he stared at the curtain and pictured the workroom in his head, wondering which cloth the stranger would choose. The tailor would have guided him along the left wall first, talking the potential client through the wools before moving on through the silks and cottons, then on to the back wall where the linens and worsteds were kept. Xander could almost feel the different textures under his fingers.

His hands curled at his sides when he contemplated the right hand shelves. He was rarely allowed to handle the tailor’s special materials and he had never been allowed near them with a needle and thread. The tailor worked on them after Xander left to go home, or on the days when he was at school. But the day was coming when Xander would be expected to follow in the tailor’s footsteps. Sixteen was just a heartbeat away and the day the tailor handed him the special ivory needles, his apprenticeship would be sealed and the path of the rest of his life would be set.

The kettle whistled at his back and he turned back to extinguish the flame.

A low chuckle oozed out from beyond the curtain and he spun around to see Mr Dollfus pushing back the curtain, his head half turned to look over his shoulder. “We’ve made a good start, but there’s a lot to consider,” he said. “If you could send your boy over with the samples tomorrow, that would be most satisfying.”

Xander stood still, his hand hovering over the kettle as the tailor appeared in the doorway. He glanced briefly at Xander before turning back to his customer. “Of course. You can expect him tomorrow, late afternoon.

Mr Dollfus smiled. “I’ll look forward it,” he said.

The tailor bobbed his head, then turned back to Xander. “You can continue your work. I’ll make the tea.”

Nodding, Xander walked quickly back to the workroom and sat down on his stool with a sigh. He would think about the future another time. There was more than enough work in the present to occupy both his hands and his thoughts.


	6. Cracks in the World: Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content that some may find disturbing

**Cracks in the World: Chapter 5**

Xander paused at the bottom of the steps to the elegant, old townhouse. He smoothed one hand down over the bottom of his over-sized flannel shirt, conscious that it was a mannerism from all the years he had straightened his work jacket at the behest of the tailor. He shifted the wooden box at his hip, walked up the steps and reached out his hand to ring the old fashioned brass bell that hung from the wooden pillar at the side of the front door. But before his fingers had closed around the bell chain, the door was pulled open and the stranger from the previous day stood in the entranceway, leaning casually against the edge of the door as if he had been waiting for the last few minutes, if not hours, in the hallway for Xander to make his delivery.

“Are you just going to stand there?” the man said, a slight smile on his lips.

“Mr Dollfus?” Xander began hesitantly. “You came to the shop yesterday. My Master wanted me to deliver some samples for your consideration, to see if any of them might be a possibility for your commission.”

The man’s smile became a predatory grin. “Possibilities are so intriguing, don’t you think?”

“I guess,” Xander replied. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

“But really, you must. Life is all about possibilities. About roads yet to be travelled and stones yet unturned. Without possibilities, life would be far less interesting.”

Xander looked down at his feet, not knowing what to say. He had no doubt that Mr Dollfus was still grinning.

“So on the subject of interesting possibilities, you had better come in, so I can see what you’ve brought me.”

Startled, Xander looked up. “Come in?” he said. “My Master just asked me to deliver you these samples” he said, offering the box up like a gift. “He gave me a key to give you, so that you could open the box.”

“Your Master’s new client would like to view the merchandise in the relative comfort of his own sitting room, rather than on the front porch.” Mr Dollfus straightened up and stared at Xander. “And I don’t need the key because you can open the box and then your Master’s new client would like you to convey his comments on the possibilities he has been sent. I believe your Master would have no fault to find with my proposal. Do you?”

“No sir.” Xander glanced down at his feet again, and then back up. “I’m sure that will be okay.” He heard a clock chime somewhere in the dim depths of the house, marking out the four beats of the hour. “I’m expected back at the shop by 4.30,” he said. “I really can’t be late.”

“We’ll have to be quick then. However, should I delay you unduly, I will write you a note clearing you of all blame for your tardiness. And the longer we stand here talking, the more likelihood there is of that being necessary.”

Mr Dollfus turned away and sauntered down the hallway. He didn’t look back to see if Xander followed.

Xander grit his teeth as he balanced the box once more on his hip and stepped into the hallway. He considered leaving the door open, thoughts of a quick getaway flitting through his mind, but the manners that the tailor and Willow had instilled in him over the years won out over his unease. He closed the door quietly and walked down the long hallway, hoping that his sneakers were not leaving dirt on the polished wooden floor.

At the end of the hall a door stood open and Xander paused on the threshold, taking a breath as he took in the expensive furnishings and the lavish decor of the room. “Nice, isn’t it?” The voice came from his right and he turned quickly, to find Mr Dollfus sitting in a richly embroidered wing-backed chair in the corner. A low, intricately inlaid table stood at one side and Dollfus had his feet up on a footstool that matched the upholstery on the chair.

“Yes sir,” Xander said softly, feeling inadequate in his faded jeans and heavy flannel shirt.

“It was lent to me by the mayor. Friends can be measured by what they are willing to offer freely and this,” Mr Dollfus waved his hand around languidly, “this is a true mark of friendship.” He paused, frowning. “Although I’m not entirely sure I would have chosen that particular cabinet.”

Xander followed his gaze to the far corner of the room. Just beyond the fireplace was the cabinet in question. It stood about five feet in height and as broad as it was tall. The double doors were held shut by an elaborate iron lock and the whole was finished in a shiny, dark green lacquer that was decorated with gleaming, golden butterflies and orchids. Xander thought he’d never seen anything quite so over-the-top in his life.

“I’ve never been a fan of Chinoiserie,” Mr Dollfus continued. “But each to their own taste, wouldn’t you agree?”

Uncertain of the appropriate reply, Xander nodded, shifted the box at his hip back into both hands and held it out. “Where would you like me to put this, sir?”

“On the table there is fine.”

“Yes sir.” Xander walked forward and bent down, placing his package carefully on the low table. Scratching something so obviously expensive would not go down well with the mayor, or Mr Dollfus, or with the tailor for that matter. He fished in the pocket of his jeans until he found a small silver key and, kneeling down, he placed the key in the lock on the side of the box.

“I don’t think I gave you an instruction to open it quite yet, did I?” Mr Dollfus said.

Xander jerked his hand back from the key and looked up. “No sir.”

Mr Dollfus stretched in his chair, pointing his toes on the footstool. “The young are always in such a hurry. Anticipation is another of life pleasures. However, instant gratification also has its own rewards.” He smiled down at Xander and chuckled. “You are an individual of many skills, acting as errand boy, as well as apprentice?”

Xander flushed. “I’m not an apprentice. Not yet, anyway,” he qualified. “I just do whatever work my Master feels is necessary.”

“And at this moment the role of errand boy is necessary? So what is necessary?” Mr Dollfus paused and last the word seemed to curl around the back of Xander’s neck, insinuating itself into his consciousness. “What grand event is needed to make such a leap forward?" Mr Dollfus continued. "A virgin sacrifice? Perhaps a great ritual or, at the very least, a contract signed in blood?”

“I need to be sixteen,” Xander said quietly. “My Master wants me to be old enough to make the decision myself and understand the commitment.”

“Ah, the great coming of age. The boy becoming a man. Trite, but somehow appropriate.” Chuckling again, Mr Dollfus leaned forward, his voice suddenly curious. “If I might be so bold, how long have you been working for the esteemed tailor? For him to trust you with such a precious cargo as these samples, he must know you very well.”

“I guess he does,” Xander replied. “I’ve been working for him for nearly four years – since I was twelve.”

“Twelve? Does the man run a sweatshop, employing children to work for him?”

“No,” Xander said hotly and then glanced down at the floor in embarrassment when he remembered his position. He took a breath and looked back up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s not like that.”

“So what is it like?”

Glancing at the wall clock, Xander wished he could get up off the floor, pick up the wooden box, leave and damn the consequences. But he knew that he couldn’t leave until Mr Dollfus had looked at the samples. He realised that Mr Dollfus knew it too.

“My father had a business deal which went wrong. Mayor Wilkins was very understanding when he couldn’t pay off the debts he'd run up.”

“And,” Mr Dollfus said.

“Sir?”

“Don’t be obtuse. How did you get from the mayor being understanding about your father’s debt, to you learning to stitch a hem?”

“The mayor helped my father with a payment schedule and suggested that a second wage might help pay things off more quickly. He heard that my Master was looking for help and introduced me.” He shrugged. “I’ve been working for him ever since, after school and in my vacation time.”

“Such family loyalty. It’s gratifying.” Mr Dollfus let his hand dangle over the arm of the chair. “And now the great transition approaches and you must make a decision on your future. Does an apprenticeship call, or do you dream of grander things than plying a needle and thread for the rest of your life?”

“I’m good with a needle and thread.” His fingers curled around the bottom of his flannel shirt. “Or at least, I’m not bad,” Xander amended. “Tailoring is respectable.”

“It is indeed. A town like Sunnydale needs a master tailor.” Mr Dollfus grinned. “So, having established your credentials, shall we turn our attention to this box and its enticing  
contents?”

“Yes sir,” Xander said.

“Your Master keeps his merchandise well protected,” Dollfus commented, waving his hand toward the box on the table.

“Yes sir,” Xander repeated, concentrating on turning the key gently until the locking mechanism clicked. He withdrew it, put it back in his pocket and looked up. “He doesn’t want to run the risk of it becoming dirty if the box was opened accidently in transit.”

“A prudent man. So let me see what this prudent man has to offer me.”

Easing the lid of the box open, Xander pushed it back until it stood at ninety degrees to the base and gently rotated the box until it faced Mr Dollfus. The movement complete, Xander started to stand.

“Stay where you are,” Mr Dollfus commanded and Xander froze for a moment, caught hunched over the table, before slowly sinking back down to his knees. From his position on the floor, he could see the back of the wooden box and the intricate marquetry on the table and out of the corner of his eye he could see a pair of slipper clad feet flex and relax, before sliding off the elegant footstool. He looked up. Mr Dollfus had leaned forward and was staring avidly at the samples the tailor had sent.

Xander watched the man’s arm rise and fall as he peeled back sample after sample, nodding his head when he saw something that obviously pleased him. After several minutes he pushed the box to the side with scant regard for the high polish on the surface of the table and rested his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his hands.

He looked down at Xander. “Your Master’s reputation does not lie, I am delighted to say. I was impressed yesterday in the workshop and even more impressed today. He carries exquisite stock,” he said with a slight smile. “I am sure that the end product will be just as exquisite.”

Xander smiled back tentatively, not sure what to say and wishing he had permission to get up off the floor.

“There are so many options here, it’s almost impossible to choose. If I didn’t have a specific project in mind, I would be tempted to have something made up from all of them. But who knows, now that I know that such possibilities...” Mr Dollfus paused, chuckling quietly. “Do you see?” he said. “There is that word again – possibilities. Now that I know that there are such possibilities, I may make further plans for the future. But for now, we must concentrate on the present.” He shifted his hands away from his chin, leaned over the box and pulled out one of the samples, placing it gently on the table. Drawing back the silk covering, he smiled down at Xander. “You can tell your Master that I’ve chosen this one.”

Kneeling up, Xander glanced from the sample, to Mr Dollfus’ face and back to the sample. For all his years working with the tailor, he had never quite got used to his Master’s special materials. The sample of human skin was pale and blemish free. Xander knew that that it would be soft and warm to the touch.

He shivered slightly and glanced at the clock. It was 4.25 pm. He was definitely going to be late.


	7. Cracks in the World: Chapter 6

**Cracks in the World: Chapter 6**

Giles placed the last book from the box beside him onto the bottom shelf and stood up slowly, stretching out the kinks in his back and rolling his neck until he felt the tight muscles across his shoulders flex and relax. He wished he could say the same about the base of his back. It ached far more than he felt was seemly for a man of his age and fitness. He suspected that in the weeks and months to come it would ache even more, but that was a pain he was looking forward too. Physical exertion in the pursuit of a greater good was something he understood and approved of. Back pain brought on by hour after hour of shelving books was, on the other hand, tedious in the extreme, although he admitted that he only had himself to blame for deciding that some of his more innocuous specialist texts could be safely housed on the bottom shelves at the very back of the library stacks. Thinking back to his own school days, he highly doubted that students would venture that deeply into the book-lined shelves, or, if they did, they probably had other things on their mind than scanning the titles of bottom shelf books. In the grand tradition of teenagers everywhere, if they were looking for something they shouldn’t, they would probably search the top shelves. It was a bit of reverse psychology that he was particularly pleased with, even if his back was not.

Bending down, he picked up the empty box and started to make his way back through the stacks, conscious that Miss Rosenberg was in the main body of the library, unpacking the last of the new student texts. It was a job he had no interest in himself, but he had been charmed by the enthusiasm of his bright and eager helper who had proved herself willing to help with even the most mundane library tasks. He suspected that she could become a regular fixture in the library during term time and that would in itself cause issues when he needed peace and quiet for more esoteric matters.

Pondering the potential problem he stopped suddenly, hearing the sound of more than one voice out on the library floor. One was Miss Rosenberg, but the other eluded him, until he recognised it as belonging to the boy from the day before. Xander, Miss Rosenberg had called him. In Giles’ mind it was a ludicrous diminutive for a perfectly respectable name, but that was Americans for you.

Even with the voice identified, caution gained from a lifetime of training made him tread forward quietly and pause by the final row of shelves, until he could see and hear, but remain out of sight himself. He put the box down on the floor at his feet.

The boy, Xander, stood near the large wooden table in the middle of the library, his back to the stacks. Miss Rosenberg stood in front of him, a book in one hand and a smile on her face which morphed into a frown as Giles watched.

Walking forward, she put the book down on the table and poked the boy hard in the shoulder.

“Ouch,” Xander said. “What was that for? You go from smiling to violence in the time it takes you to walk a few steps. You’ve got to watch those psychopathic tendencies.”

She poked him again. “I think you mean schizophrenic tendencies.” She paused, her frown becoming more thoughtful. “Unless you really do mean psychopathic? I mean, if I’ve got schizophrenic tendencies, I wouldn’t necessarily know if I’ve psychopathic ones as well.”

Xander chuckled and she poked him for a third time. “And that’s for distracting me. You’ve got some explaining to do. I waited for you for an hour at home, Mr ‘let’s meet up and go to the Bronze and get our freak on’.”

Giles winced at the teenager’s mangled use of English, although a small voice in the back of his head reminded him snarkily that his own use of language in the 70’s had been less than stellar. He resolutely ignored the voice.

“And your valid alternative to a night of grooving was to come to the library?” Xander asked, his incredulity obvious from his tone.

Miss Rosenberg folded her arms and looked at him. She tapped her foot. She stared. Xander hung his head and Giles chuckled to himself. Oh yes, that was a doghouse posture he definitely recognised.

“Xander!” she said. Giles had a brief feeling of satisfaction at having his identification confirmed.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Xander said. “I had a whole speech ready. You know I was working this afternoon. I ran late. Way late. Then I got to your place and your mom told me you’d given up on me and come here. I got the whole mom lecture about manners, timeliness and not breaking promises. I had to do all sorts of grovelling before she’d let me go. On the upside, she didn’t make me eat tofu!”

Miss Rosenberg unfolded her arms and Giles watched her body language soften. “Wow,” she said. “You did get off easy if you just got a lecture on courtesy and did a bit of grovelling. Do you remember the last time Jesse was late? Mom made him read that book of articles about the fabric of society being built on the unwritten rules of acceptable human interaction.”

“Oh yeah. So didn’t want to have to read the sequel to that one. I kind of promised to do some yard work for her as well.”

Miss Rosenberg nodded approvingly. “Nicely played.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” Xander said and made a show of looking around him. “This is what the library looks like, huh?”

“Do you want to get poked again?” she asked.

He backed up a few steps and hoisted himself onto the edge of the table. Giles could see his profile now. “No maam! So you’re doing more of the public spirited, help out the British guy with his big dull books stuff?”

“They’re not dull,” she protested. “And yes, I’m helping Mr Giles finish off his cataloguing of the new school books. It’s really interesting.”

Giles smiled at her enthusiasm and decided he’d heard enough. He bent down to pick up the empty box at his feet and noticed that one shoe lace was precariously close to becoming loose, so he knelt to remedy the situation.

“Interesting, right,” Xander drawled. “Like root canal is interesting. I’ll take your word for it. Is your mom coming by to pick you up?”

“No, not tonight.”

“You’re not going to walk, are you?”

She sighed and Giles could hear the exasperation even before she replied. “Yes, I’m going to walk. I’m capable of getting myself home safely, you know.”

“I know, I’m not suggesting you’re not. But Willow, you’re in a library. You’ve got free rein of all the bright and shiny new books. Are you really telling me you’re going to be watching the clock and the daylight?”

“Of course I will.” She paused. “Well, okay, maybe you’ve got a point. But you’re not much better mister. You’re always out and about at odd hours, even when it’s dark.”

“Yeah, and I’ve always got a stake and a cross on me. “

Giles froze for a second, then got slowly to his feet and inched forward, until the teenagers were back in his eye-line.

“I have a cross,” Miss Rosenberg said. It’s in my bag.” She nodded towards the bag sitting at the side of the table to illustrate her point. “Because, hello, I can’t exactly wear a cross without a whole load of awkward questions. And I’ve got some holy water, too, so I’m totally organised.” She paused, indignation bleeding through to worry. “I hope it doesn’t have a sell by date, or anything. I’ve been carrying it around ever since you told me about stuff.”

Xander laughed. “I don’t think it has a sell by date. At least I hope not.”

Miss Rosenberg poked him again. “And the fact that I still have it after nearly four years, just goes to show how careful I’ve been. So there.”

“You going to stick your tongue out at me now?” Xander asked.

Giggling, she shook her head. “Not this time. You’re way beyond that.”

“I know,” he said softly and Giles watched as he slid off the table, took her hands and pulled her into a brief hug before letting her go. “I just don’t want to think that anything could happen to you,” he said. “There’s knowing about the Sunnydale stuff and being prepared in theory and then there’s knowing about it. You know?”

She nodded. “I’m sure that made sense in your head, even it didn’t in practice. But yeah, I get it. And I’m careful. Uber careful.”

“I know,” he repeated. “So, do you still want to Bronze it? Or has the evil librarian got you in his dastardly clutches?”

Giles bent down and grabbed hold of the empty box and took two quiet steps backwards before walking forward, making sure his footsteps were loud on the library’s wooden floor. He heard Miss Rosenberg giggle.

“Did you really just say ‘dastardly’?” she asked.

“Miss Rosenberg,” Giles called, coming around the end of the last row of shelves. He stopped dead and had to bite back a smile at the panicked look she gave him. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that you had company.” He raised his eyebrows in Xander’s direction.

“Oh, sorry Mr Giles. You remember Xander? Xander Harris. I was talking to him yesterday when I was in the book storage room.”

“Ah yes, Mr Harris. Nice to meet you in person, as it were. Did you drop by to help Miss Rosenberg with her admirable voluntary work? I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you. The library stacks are quite labyrinthine and I was working in the back.”

Xander glanced over at Willow and back to Giles. “Em. Not really my thing. Libraries, I mean. No offence. I just came over to apologise to Willow. I stood her up. And now I’m keeping her from that good voluntary work you were talking about, so I should go. But then I promised I’d walk her home, so I probably should stay.”

“Your concern for Miss Rosenberg is admirable. It makes me wonder quite why you were so tardy in the first place?”

Blushing, Xander glanced down at his sneakers before looking up. “I was running late at work. I couldn’t get away.”

“Indeed. As a member of the school faculty, you will have to reassure me that your work will not impact your studies.”

Xander shook his head slowly. “No. No sir. My, my boss lets me have shorter hours when school’s in. I’ve just been taking advantage of the vacation to pull in a little extra.” He blushed again.

Giles realised that the conversation was entering uncomfortable territory, but he couldn’t resist pushing just a little more. “So what exactly do you do, if it’s not an impertinent question?”

Xander glanced over at Willow. “My boss is in retail, over on the east side. Clothing, mainly. I help him with errands and fetching and carrying. Nothing fancy.” He paused, then seemed to wilt a little under the Giles' gaze before lifting his chin back up. “It’s nothing illegal,” he said.

Giles smiled. “I’m very glad to hear it. Let us consider the subject closed.” He walked down the steps onto the floor of the library and discarded the empty box on the countertop. Picking up a pile of books, he turned and handed them to Xander. “While you are waiting to walk Miss Rosenberg home, perhaps you would shelve these for me. They all go in the second row under life sciences. Put them alphabetically, please. I trust you know your alphabet?”

Not waiting for an answer, Giles walked into the library office, smiling faintly at Xander's muttered, ‘I trust you know your alphabet’, in a terrible English accent. Miss Rosenberg’s exasperated hiss of ‘Xander’, turned Giles’ fledgling smile into a minor chuckle as he sat down at his desk. His gaze was caught by the pristine journal that sat on top of a pile of papers at the top right hand corner. He wondered what entries he would make in the weeks and months to come and the chuckle faded away to nothing.

Things just got more complicated, he thought. Civilians in the know was something he’d vaguely considered. But school children the same age as his soon to be charge in the know, was something that hadn’t entered his wildest dreams. For the first time since he was a teenager himself, he wondered if the Council really had all the answers.


	8. Cracks in the World: Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content that some may find disturbing

**Cracks in the World: Chapter 7**

Xander pushed the fine silk thread through the eye of his needle without looking. It was a small trick, but it was one that the tailor had made him practice over and over at the start of his training. ‘Tailoring was instinct’; the mantra ran in his head. The needle, the thread, the material were all extensions of himself, to be learned and nurtured in the same way as you would nurture a growing child, until the finished product was ready to take on a life of its own. As his fingers worked, Xander was glad of his hard won ability. It allowed him to work while he watched the tailor through lowered lashes.

The old man leaned over the cutting table, a thin roll of pale skin stretched out on the polished wooden surface. He moved slowly around it, sometimes pausing to consult a sheaf of hand-written notes before neatly marking his arcane canvas with the ever present chalk in his hand.

It was fascinating. Xander had come to love watching the tailor’s meticulous movements, mesmerised by each careful mark and the way his hands smoothed over the material, coaxing away tiny wrinkles and creases before they could ruin the overall design. The sight of the old man at work at the cutting table was as familiar to Xander as breathing, but this was the first time he’d ever been present at the marking out of one of the tailor’s skins. He knew that it was a significant moment. He just wasn’t quite sure he was comfortable with what it might mean.

“Get me the scissors,” the tailor said, breaking into Xander’s thoughts. “The small ones on the right.”

Xander stood, placed his work in his basket and selected the scissors from the rack of tools by the old sewing machine. He presented them, the sharp end protected in the palm of his hand as he’d been taught. The tailor grunted and Xander took a step towards his stool. “Stay,” the tailor said sharply. Xander turned back, his eyes wide. “Stay,” the tailor repeated more softly. “Watch and learn.”

Xander froze, momentarily bewildered by the tailor’s unexpected command, before realising that the old man was staring at him, head cocked to the left as if waiting for something. Flushing, Xander moved to the tailor’s side, standing to the right and slightly behind, where he could see but wouldn’t interrupt the flow of the cutting, or the light. The old man harrumphed softly and turned back to the table.

He smoothed out the skin again, tracing the points where the chalk marked the cutting lines. “See,” he said. “You need only a little chalk. You don’t want to damage the goods. Skin is strong. It has to be, considering the way people disrespect their own. But it cuts smoother than silk and it’s easy to ruin in the wrong hands.” He glanced back and Xander nodded, anxious to show that he was listening. “Our client has very good taste.” The tailor chuckled softly. “And deep pockets as well. This isn’t cheap. Skin this pale, with no blemishes, isn’t easy to find in this part of the world. English rose skin my father used to call it. You almost feel that, if you were to touch it, it would tear.”

Curling his fingers into his palms, Xander wondered why the tailor was suddenly being so forthcoming. But he knew it was a question he would never ask out loud.

The tailor chuckled again, as if he knew what Xander was thinking, then shifted the scissors in his left hand and raised one edge of the skin slightly off the table with his right. He bent over and began cautiously to cut, following the chalk marks from point, to point, to point, until he reached the bottom edge and pulled the remnant carefully away from the whole. Folding it up, he placed it to one side and moved slowly around the table until he reached the other side and started the process over again. Xander watched spellbound as the scissors glided through the skin. He lost himself in the sound of the blades coming together and the low murmur of the tailor muttering to himself as he worked.

An hour passed, seemingly in the blink of an eye, as Xander watched the old man work, his hands dancing over his canvas with a lightness of touch that belied the swollen joints in his fingers and wrists. Xander wondered if his own hands would look like that someday. If they’d be shaped and sculpted by the constant grip on a needle and thread and scissors.

“It’ll be a long time before they get like this,” the old man said suddenly and Xander’s jerked his head up. “Your hands,” the tailor continued. “They’ll serve you well for years, before you have to worry about them. Even then, they’ll still serve you. You’ll just have to remember to serve them too.”

“How-” Xander started.

“You were staring at my hands instead of following the cutting. A subtle difference, but noticeable. You’re not hard to read, if a person knows how to look. That’s something you’re going to have to work on. You don’t always want someone to know what you are thinking.” He handed Xander the scissors and Xander automatically turned and put them back in their slot in the rack, next to the large pinking shears.

“I’m sorry,” Xander said, turning back. “I was paying attention. I guess...” He paused. “I’ve watched you cutting cloth a thousand times. But somehow, against the skin, your hands looked different. They looked older.” His eyes skittered away towards the shelves holding the linens and worsteds before he looked back at the tailor. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “That’s a stupid thing to say.”

“You’re getting older yourself,” the tailor replied. “More observant too. Skin calls to skin in the same way that blood calls to blood. This skin is still young and fresh. Still soft and malleable. My old hands look ancient by comparison. You have a long way to go before even such a young skin will make your hands look old.”

“I guess so.”

“But it will happen one day. One day you’ll look down and you’ll see swollen knuckles and feel wrists that creak. Then you’ll remember this conversation.”

“Yes sir,” Xander said softly.

“But that’s in the future. For now, you’ll remember me telling you to guard your thoughts?”

“Yes, sir,” Xander repeated. “I thought I’d mastered my poker face. Our new school librarian asked me about my job, because he was worried about it interfering with school stuff. I told him that you worked in retail, so I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell him the whole truth. I guess, if you don’t know there’s anything to see, you don’t look for it.”

“Very true.” The tailor paused and looked at Xander, his eyes bright behind his glasses.

Xander felt as if the old man was looking right into his brain, under his skin and into his soul. It was strange how his penetrating gaze didn’t make Xander feel uncomfortable, the way Dollfus had made him feel. He had history with the tailor and it gave the old man the right to judge him, to weigh and measure, whereas Dollfus... His thoughts ground to a halt, ‘Dollfus’, not ‘Mr Dollfus’... When had that happened?

“You’re not stupid, you know.” The tailor broke into his thoughts.

“Sir?” Xander stared at him, startled.

“You said it was a stupid thing to say; the comment about my hands. It wasn’t stupid. You’re not stupid. I wouldn’t employ you if you were stupid. A little impulsive on occasion, but less so than when you were younger. As I said, you’re getting older. You’re learning,” He pointed a finger, waving it at Xander. “Now, back to your hemming. Remember, that coat is for the mayor and he won’t accept anything but the highest standard of work.”

Xander smiled, feeling closer to the old man than he had felt in a long time. Sitting back down on his stool, he took the half-hemmed coat out of the basket. As his hands fell back into automatic, he watched the tailor roll the skin, place it carefully in a white silk bag and lock it away in the bottom drawer under the cutting table. He knew the time was close when he would be required to cut a skin himself. Close, but not quite yet.

The following week went by in the familiar ebb and flow of precious end-of-summer hours with Willow, chores around the shop for the tailor and painstaking finishing work on the Mayor’s new coat. Even the new experience of watching the old man working the fine rolls of skin had been absorbed into the rhythm, until it had become another beat in the music in his head. Willow’s laughter echoing in the back of his brain, the needle moving in and out of the fine wool cloth and the careful snip, snip, snip of the scissors at the work table came together, like the strands of the fine silk thread he was using to finish the edging on the outer breast pocket.

Placing the final stitch with a flourish, he looked up. “It’s finished,” he said. “Do you want to see?”

The old man had his back to him, his head bent over the work table until his nose was almost touching the surface. “Quiet,” he said.

Xander heard the click of the scissors coming together once, then twice and the tailor grunted quietly, stood straight and rubbed the small of his back, the scissors still in his hand. “I swear, I’m getting too old for this fine work,” he said. He rubbed his back again, turned around and stared at Xander. “Why have you stopped? Don’t you have enough work to do?”

“I’ve finished,” Xander repeated, but the elation of a job completed had disappeared, scattered like the pieces of thread on the floor at his feet.

“Have you now?” The tailor put the scissors down on the table and looked over the top of his glasses. “Well, well. I didn’t expect you to be finished for at least another day. You’re getting faster. Or more careless, maybe?”

“Faster, I think,” Xander replied. “I was careful.”

“I should think so,” the tailor replied with a sharp nod. “Well, I’ll have to check. But before that, I need your help. Put the dummy over near the door where I can see what I’m doing.”

The old man turned away, and Xander hurried to the far corner and lifted the tailor’s dummy that stood there. He had imagined, over the years, what the dummy had witnessed in this room. It had seen a scared twelve year old boy thread his first needle after a dozen clumsy attempts. It had seen him cut his first piece of wool, ruin his first piece of silk and endure the first of many reprimands. But it had also seen the boy grow and set a collar on his first cotton shirt, finish the button hole on his first linen jacket and soak up the occasional pieces of praise like water in the desert.

These were the things he knew the dummy had seen, but there were other things he could only imagine. As he set it down between the door to the front shop and the sewing machine, in the space where the tailor could walk around it, he shivered slightly, glad that his imagination only stretched so far. The boy he had been - the dummy that his dad had always called him - had been too nervous in those first years to wonder what this silent workshop witness would say if it could talk.

The tailor turned. “Good. Come here.”

Xander took one last look at the dummy and returned to the tailor’s side, at the far end of the worktable.

“See this piece here?” the old man said, point to the broadest of the many pieces of skin laid out on the table. “This is the start. Pick them up one at a time, anticlockwise, and hand me them. Save my legs from walking back and forward to the table. My back’s suffered enough today as it is.”

“You want me to...?”

“Are you questioning me?”

“No sir. I just wasn’t expecting...” He smiled slightly and nodded. “Thank you.”

“Don’t forget to wear the gloves. I don’t want your sweat staining the merchandise.”

“Yes, sir.” Xander bent and picked out a pair of fine silk gloves from the box on the floor and put them on. By the time he’d finished, the old man had walked slowly around the table and now stood by the dummy, looking expectant. Xander bit his lip and picked up the first piece of skin the tailor had indicated.

It was lighter than he expected. He wasn’t sure why he had expected it to be heavy, but somehow the skin was important – it had belonged to someone once. Now, for an interim period, it belonged to the tailor and it would soon belong to a new owner – somehow, important things should have weight to equal their value.

The unexpected lightness, the softness and the flexibility he could almost feel soaking through the warp and weft of his gloves, gave him pause. This had belonged to someone; the thought circled in his head. Now it was being made new under his Master’s skilful care. He bit his lip again and hoped the old man didn’t notice that his hands were shaking slightly as he walked the length of the table and offered up the skin, like a supplicant laying offerings at an altar.

“Good,” the tailor said. “Now the next piece.”

The minutes ticked by as Xander traced and retraced his steps, carrying each piece of precious cargo into the tailor’s care. The tremor in his hands finally stopped as he lifted the last piece on the table and walked back. The tailor took the narrow strip with a sharp nod, walked around to the back of the dummy, held up the skin and smoothed it in place. Like the mirror in the front of the shop, this was no ordinary dummy. The skin hung, clinging to the curves without the need of tacking thread or staples until the tailor was satisfied with the way pieces worked together. Then, and only then, would the delicate work of stitching begin.

“That will do for now,” the old man said. “It’s a good start. We’ll let it sit overnight and then view it with fresh eyes tomorrow; see what adjustments we might need to be make.” He paused and rubbed his back again. “Now, I believe you said you’d finished your work. Let’s see if you’re right.”

Xander dragged his gaze away from the dummy and turned back to the work basket by his stool. Gathering the folded, woollen cloth carefully in his arms, he turned back towards the table. He spread the coat out on the surface, smoothing it down gently, teasing out the wrinkles without putting any stress on the cloth, just as he had been taught, until the fruits of his labours became clear and the coat lay displayed and ready for inspection. He stepped back and looked anxiously at the tailor, who was watching him, his head tilted slightly to the side and his face impassive.

“It’s ready” Xander said. He was proud that there was only the faintest whisper of a tremor in his voice.

“That’s for me to decide,” the tailor said. He walked slowly around the table and began his examination. Sleeves were lifted and seams scrutinised. The collar was folded up and back and gnarled hands reached into pockets and skimmed over the edges of button holes. Xander held his breath, trying to interpret every sigh and inaudible mutter, watching the gnarled hands as they moved lightly across the cloth, pausing every few seconds, as if they were reading the wool and the workmanship like Braille.

“So does the boy get a gold star, or sent to his bed without any supper?” The unexpected voice came from behind them and Xander turned quickly. Dollfus stood in the doorway, smiling, and Xander flashed to a picture he’d once seen of the Cheshire cat in Willow’s copy of Alice in Wonderland. He suspected that even if Dollfus disappeared in a puff of smoke, the smile would linger for a long time. He wondered why he hadn’t heard the bell above the door ring.

“Boy,” the tailor said sternly. “Pay attention.”

Gritting his teeth, Xander glanced at the intruder before turning back to the work table. He could feel the smirk like an itch between his shoulder blades, but he remembered the tailor’s words from the week before, gathered his thoughts and put them aside, hiding them away under years of attentiveness and service. If the tailor wasn’t fazed by Dollfus’s unheralded arrival, then neither was he. That’s what he told himself and a little voice at the back of his head that sounded strangely like Willow, snarked that if he repeated it enough times he might even believe it.

“You didn’t answer my question. Did the boy do well?”

This time the tailor turned. “I believe so. He is an attentive pupil, if a little impulsive.”

“Ah yes, impulsiveness. Such a fascinating trait. If only more people were impulsive, the world would be a more interesting place, don’t you think?”

The tailor paused, as if he was seriously considering the question. “Tailoring is an art,’ he said finally. “Like all art, creativity is at its centre and creativity sometimes derives from impulse. But before impulse, before creativity and before art, comes learning and craft and the corner stone of those things is discipline.”

“Discipline,” the way Dollfus said the word, as if he was savouring the way it sounded in his mouth, made Xander’s skin crawl, but he promised himself that he wouldn’t react. “If you feel the boy is in need of another mentor – another pair of hands as it were – I’d be delighted to oblige. The coat, I know, is for my friend the mayor. I’m sure we both want the end result to be everything that he would expect. It would be a shame to upset such an influential client for the lack of a little discipline.”

“I believe that I’m happy with the coat. I’m sure that his worship will be, as well. I am grateful for your offer, but I believe that in this case, there is no need for you to feel concerned.” The tailor glanced back to Xander who was still standing at the head of the table. “You may take the coat and put it on the dummy in the front shop. I’ll be through shortly to give it a final inspection, but I don’t think I will find anything untoward.”

“Yes, sir,” Xander said softly, gathering the fine wool coat up in his arms, like a bride on her wedding day. He made himself walk the most direct route to the door, which took him close by their visitor. He nodded his head respectfully, like any good servant, and pushed through the curtain. Only when he reached the relative safety on the other side, did he let himself slump and lean back against the counter.

In the silence he heard the tailor’s voice. “So what can I do for you?”

“I came to check on the status of my commission. Why else would I come?”

Xander pushed himself away from the counter and walked over to the display dummy standing guard by the large oval mirror. He eased the mayor’s coat onto the frame and smoothed down the cloth until the coat hung properly. He didn’t let himself shiver. He was the tailor’s servant, and would soon be his apprentice. He refused to let Dollfus get under his skin. The irony of the thought made him pause and this time, when the shiver threatened, he let it come.


	9. Cracks in the World: Chapter 8

**Cracks in the World: Chapter 8**

 

Giles sat on a park bench in an unobtrusive corner and waited. To any unsuspecting passerby he was simply a middle-aged man enjoying the early evening air. At least, he hoped that was how he looked, and not like some pervert, sitting in a public park waiting for innocent children to walk by. The trouble was, that was almost exactly what he was doing. Not that Xander was a child and, as a 15 year old boy, he probably wasn’t exactly innocent, but he was still a minor and any perceived impropriety, however false, would not go down well with the authorities.

It was almost a week since Giles had overheard the conversation in the library and had begun to wonder what course of action to take. The Council would be horrified to know that civilians, especially children, were aware of the supernatural. The irony of their hypocrisy, given the age that a Slayer was called, wasn’t lost on him. A part of him, that sounded suspiciously like his teenage self, applauded the fact that, since they had the knowledge, Xander and Miss Rosenberg were sensible enough to take precautions. The question was, should he engage them to ensure that their precautions were adequate? His conscience said yes, but his training told him that engagement meant exposing his own inevitably superior knowledge and, by default, exposing his Slayer as soon as she arrived.

His Slayer – he shifted on the bench in a vain attempt to get more comfortable while still staying alert and contemplated the thought. For years it had been an abstract idea, for books and diaries and intellectual conversations. Then, for a time, the idea of a Slayer meant tradition and convention and traps. It was a future he’d run from. But now it was real. Almost. The thought became more terrifying and more exhilarating with every passing day.

She was the real reason that he wouldn’t engage with the children.

He knew that he had to guide, mentor and mould his Slayer when she arrived. It was what the Council required. But at the same time, he had ideas and theories about working with a Slayer that weren’t exactly Council policy, although he was still trying to work out how he might reconcile the differences in practice. He wanted to be proud of his Slayer. He was vain enough to want his Slayer to be proud of him.

So for now he would watch the children from a distance. Watching was what he did. Xander’s obvious knowledge of Sunnydale’s nightlife piqued his curiosity and he wanted to know how deep the knowledge ran and, if possible, how he’d gained it in the first place. Giles' training told him that he could achieve this by watching and listening and, in this case, waiting on a park bench in the shadow of an old Sycamore tree for a teenage boy to walk by.

Xander had been in the library on the dot of six o’clock to play escort to his best friend, just as he’d done every night, with the exception of the evening he’d been delayed by his after school job. Giles had estimated the time it would take for them to reach the Rosenberg’s house and he had made an educated guess that Xander would have to pass by the park gates on his way from the Rosenberg’s towards the east side of town and his work. Giles wasn’t sure he approved of after school work, but he vividly remembered outrunning the constable himself on a regular basis, at Xander’s age, so if the boy worked to earn a few extra dollars to finance whatever extracurricular activities American teenagers indulged in, he supposed it wasn’t his place to intervene.

He stiffened at the sound of scuffed footsteps on the pavement outside the gates of the park, and then made himself to relax. The bench was shaded by the old tree and he sank further into the shadows, watching as Xander walked past. The boy wasn’t hurrying, but he looked purposeful and Giles suspected that the occasional scuff of his dirty sneakers was more habit than ennui.

Standing up, Giles counted slowly to ten, then strolled towards the park gates as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He paused at the edge of the path and looked along the street. He could see the boy about one hundred yards ahead, walking with the curious slouch that children seemed to develop, along with acne and attitudes, when they reached their teens.

Giles followed at a distance. At first it wasn’t difficult; the parked cars and established trees lining the residential neighbourhoods near the school made following someone without drawing attention, relatively straightforward. It helped that the target of his pursuit seemed oblivious to the fact that he was been followed. They crossed over half a dozen side streets, playing their roles of cautious cat and oblivious mouse. Giles allowed himself a small grin at what his Council mentors would say if they could see him now.

As they walked, pursuer and pursued, the early evening light started to fade. Giles was fascinated to see Xander’s body language change to match. The slouch and the scuffing of feet on the paving stones morphed into a straight back and firmer steps, and Xander’s right hand hovered just above the pocket half way down the leg of his trousers. From his lookout point behind a large campervan Giles could see Xander in profile as he paused before crossing the street and he noticed that the button on Xander’s trouser pocket was undone.

Another two intersections went by and the well-tended trees and signs of middle class suburbia gave way to a harder, more industrial landscape. Giles dropped back until he was just keeping Xander in sight and no more. There were fewer places to hide in plain sight amongst the sharp edges of chain link fences and empty, overgrown lots. He sheltered in the doorway of an empty furniture shop that still had a fading sign in the window telling people to step right in for the best deal in town. It didn’t look like it had had seen any kind of deal, apart from drugs deals, for years.

He watched his quarry skirt around the edge of some construction barriers that were blocking off a section of pavement just before the first arch of an old railway viaduct that spanned the street ahead. The road dog-legged sharply to the right on the other side of the bridge and Xander looked left, then right before crossing the street, walked under the far archway and around the bend, out of sight. Giles cursed. He didn’t know this part of town and had no idea where the road beyond the railway bridge went. Leaving the dubious sanctuary of the doorway he strode up the street, under the archway and paused at the corner on the other side. There was no sign of the boy.

Giles cursed again.

“Mr Giles?” The voice came from behind him and he turned, startled. Xander stood in the lee of the viaduct, half in and half out of the shadows.

“Mr... Mr Harris,” he stuttered.

“Hey, Mr Giles. I saw you out of the corner of my eye when I turned the corner. At least I thought it was you. I wondered if you were lost?”

“No, Mr Harris, I’m not lost,” Giles replied. “I’m not lost,” he repeated, stalling for time. “Or at least, I don’t think so.”

“Xander,” the boy replied. “I know you have to call Willow, Miss Rosenberg. Got to keep everything on the up and up, what with her being in the library with you, and there not being any other adults there and her being 15 and you being...” he paused. “Well you’re not 15, obviously, because you’re a librarian and I guess there aren’t any 15 year old librarians, unless they make a librarian version of Doogie Howser and that would be really disturbing because they really shouldn’t have made a Doogie Howser version of Doogie Howser.”

Giles blinked. “I’m afraid now I really am lost, Mr Harris. I think most of that got lost in translation.”

“Xander,” the boy repeated. “Please, call me Xander. Alexander if you absolutely have too, but most people just call me Xander. And sorry, I didn’t mean to confuse you.”

Nodding, Giles stuck his hands in his pockets, a habit he knew was a sure sign, to anyone who knew him, that he was uneasy. “Xander, it is then. So what are you doing out at this time of night? I thought you were going home after you’d seen Miss Rosenberg safely back to her house. I don’t believe the Rosenberg’s live around here?”

Xander chuckled. “That would be a big fat no. Unless city hall has suddenly decided to convert some of the old warehouses around here into edgy, industrial apartments, and Willow’s mom and dad could say that they were going to live here as part of a social movement to reclaim run down bits of the town. Apart from that, not so much.”

“So, my question remains.” Giles knew he had no right to interrogate Xander, but going on the offensive and playing the authority card seemed a sound strategy, while he tried to deflect attention from the fact that he’d been following the boy.

“I’m on my way to work,” Xander explained.” I told you I have an after school job and since school isn’t back yet, I get some extra hours in the evening.”

“Around here?” Giles couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice.

“It’s a small business. The rent and taxes in the better parts of town are a lot higher than they are out here, so it keeps the costs down. It’s a little out of the way, but I’m not complaining. If it was in the centre, my boss probably wouldn’t be able to afford to employ me, so it’s all good in my book.”

“I see. Well I hope you’re cautious in your journeys to and from work. This doesn’t seem like the most salubrious area, and I think Miss Rosenberg would be very upset if you were to get hurt.”

Xander smiled. “If I knew what salubrious meant, I’d probably agree with you. But I get the drift. I’m cautious, but thanks for the thought. The last thing in the world I’d ever want to do is upset Willow." He hesitated, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets. "You know, the same goes the other way, Mr Giles. What are you doing out this way? I know you said you weren’t lost, but I wouldn’t exactly think it was on the recommended tourist trail. Not that you’re a tourist, but you know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean,” Giles replied. “I’m new in Sunnydale, as you know. I like to get to know a new place, to get under its skin as it were. I’m afraid it comes with the territory of being a librarian, or at least it does in my book."

“And you being a librarian, it’s all about the book.” Xander grinned.

“Quite so,” Giles acknowledged. “I have volumes of local history, and politics, and geography on the shelves, and they all provide excellent information, but I’ve always found that the best way to understand a place, to feel what makes it tick and why, is to walk around and see things for yourself. You might not have a lot of history here, compared to what I’m used to, but what little there is, is in the tidy parks in the centre and in the abandoned warehouses in the industrial area.” He pointed toward the viaduct. “It’s in the reason this railway bridge is here and why the railway doesn’t run anymore. They all have a story. All you have to do is listen to what they have to say."

“Wow, I think you missed your calling. You should be teaching instead of librarianing. I might even pay attention in class.”

“A higher compliment, I’m sure I’ve never heard,” Giles replied.

“So you’re just ambling around here listening to the seedy part of town talk to you?”

Giles smiled. “Put like that, I admit it sounds a little strange, but essentially, yes. I came to listen to the whisper of industry, long disappeared, so you can imagine my surprise that I find myself talking to you instead.”

“Yeah, well that makes two of us.” Xander glanced down at his watch. “You know, I’d better get to work and it’s almost dark. Like you say, this isn’t the best place to be hanging around at night, so you’d probably be better heading back as well. I think Willow would be upset if her favourite librarian got mugged.”

“Yes, of course, I’d better let you go. And thank you for your concern, as well. I trust that you will take your own advice when you finish work?”

“Sure. My boss always makes sure I’m safe.”

“Well, I’ll be off. Will I will see you at the normal time tomorrow evening to provide your usual escort?”

“Yep, I’ll be there.”

“Good.” Realising that the conversation had run out of steam and that he had no credible reason to stay, Giles nodded, turned on his heel and strode back down the street, retracing his footsteps. When he got to the corner near to the empty furniture shop, he paused, conscious of a feeling of being watched. He turned quickly, half expecting the boy to be standing where he’d left him in the lee of the railway bridge. But the street was empty and the boy was nowhere to be seen.


	10. Cracks in the World: Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content that some may find disturbing

**Cracks in the World: Chapter 9**

The realisation that the tailor had been talking to him for the last week, and not at him, sneaked up on Xander when he was pressing the mayor’s coat with the heavy, old fashioned iron that the tailor insisted produced a better end result than anything to be found in the mainstream shops. He paused, laying the iron to the side where he couldn’t damage the fine wool and allowed the thought to circle in his brain, like a dog turning in its basket, looking for exactly the right spot to lie down. The thought settled and stretched. He closed his eyes, sifting through his memories, trying to pinpoint when things had changed.

The last week or so had been strange, even for Sunnydale. Helping Mr Giles had given Willow a new focus and, with Jesse not yet back from summer camp, Xander had been left to his own devices more than he was used to. He hadn’t realised just how much, because he’d used his time to come to the shop and work overtime for the tailor, putting in hours that he would lose once school started. The evidence of his extra work was under his hand, in the shape of the mayor’s new coat, and in the tidiness of the workshop that he kept diligently clean.

He surveyed the long, narrow room with something like pride. There really was a place for everything and everything was in its place. His survey halted at the tailor’s dummy in the opposite corner. The tailor had been working with the skin over the last few nights, moulding and shaping it, setting stitches with fine thread and ivory needles, until the garment had started to come together under the old man’s skillful hands. It was going to be beautiful. Xander was sure that Dollfus would be pleased with the end result. Although a small part of him hoped that Dollfus wouldn’t be pleased, because he would be happy if he never saw the man again.

That was when the realisation hit. The tailor’s change of mood had started around the same time that Dollfus had arrived. He examined the revelation from every angle, sure that it was correct. Now he just had to work out what it meant.

The brass rings rattled on the pole above the entrance to the workroom and Xander straightened as the tailor brushed the curtain aside and walked over to the dummy. He spent several minutes in silence, examining the skin for flaws Xander knew wouldn’t exist. When the inspection was complete, the old man turned. “Are you finished?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” Xander replied. “I’ll put the iron away and put the coat on one of the good cedar hangers. It’ll be ready for whenever the mayor wants to collect it.”

“Good. Once you’ve done that, come help me with the final workings on this piece.”

“Yes, sir,” Xander repeated. He paused, chewing on his lip.

“You have a question?” the tailor asked, peering over his glasses.

“Not a question.” Xander hesitated. “It’s just... I ran into our new school librarian tonight. Mr Giles. I noticed him behind me when I was about half way here, so I came by the main road from town, instead of coming along the railroad tracks like normal. I kept following the road around the bend on the other side of the bridge where it goes towards the old warehouses.”

“Do you think he was following you?”

Xander shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t see any reason why he would be, but I thought it was better to give him a false trail anyway. Then I doubled back and asked him if he was lost. He said he was getting to know the town. That he liked to get a feel for a new place and understand its history by walking around and exploring.”

“A librarian who understands that not all answers are in books. Mr Giles is an interesting man.”

“Willow thinks so,” Xander said with a small grin. “It was probably a coincidence.”

“It always pays to be cautious,” the tailor nodded. “But whether he was following you, or just taking in the sights, I don’t think Mr Giles’ excursion into this side of town came from any ill intention towards you.” He paused. “In fact, you might find that he would be useful to cultivate, if you needed another responsible adult to be available.”

“Why would I need that?” Xander asked.

“Who knows? It’s always difficult to know what you might need until you suddenly need it.” The tailor smiled briefly. “The whole insurance industry is based on that dilemma. Anyway, enough about Mr Giles. Hang up the mayor’s coat, then come help me, or we’ll never be done.”

The tailor turned back towards the dummy and Xander lifted the coat, being careful not to put any creases into the fine wool. He turned to the narrow cupboard behind him, pushing open the concertina door, grabbed a heavy, highly polished hanger off the bar inside and eased it into the shoulders of the coat, letting the weight of the fabric settle. He hung the coat alongside the other finished items that were waiting for collection. Closing the door again, he pushed the ironing board into the corner and placed the cooling iron on the shelf above.

Once everything was tidied away, he skirted the edge of the work table, stopped at the tailor’s elbow and waited for instructions. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Turn the dummy for me. I want to see the back and the light is better at this angle.”

Xander thought the light was bright in every corner of the work room, but he knew his eyes were a lot younger than the tailor’s, so he kept the thought to himself, grabbed the handle at the top of the dummy’s neck and cranked it. The dummy rotated on its base until the back was facing the tailor.

The old man grunted an acknowledgment and returned to his examination, muttering and nodding as he went. After a minute he stepped back and looked at Xander. “See if you can see where the stitches are,” he said.

Xander leaned forward and studied the smooth expanse of skin that made up the back of the garment. It was seamless, which he knew wasn’t possible, because human skin didn’t come in single pieces so broad and long. He shook his head and glanced back at the tailor. “I can’t see any stitches. I know they have to be there, because I’ve seen you working with the needle and thread, and I handed you the individual pieces when you started, but there’s nothing visible." He straightened up, his eyes wide. “That’s amazing.”

The old man snorted. “There’s nothing amazing about it. It comes with the craft.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do something like this,” Xander said.

“One day you will. Do you think I could have done this at your age? I’ll expect your assistance on my next special commission – perhaps a little cutting, or some sewing on a piece that won’t show. It’s the only way to start, just like you did with the wool, and the silk, and the linen.

“Are you sure?” Xander asked. “I mean, remember how I ruined the first piece of silk you had me work on?”

“Are you questioning my judgement?”

“No sir,” Xander replied. “It’s just that if I ruined a skin...” he tailed off, not sure how to put into words, his feeling that to ruin a skin would be disrespectful.

“You’ll make mistakes. But you’ve learned a lot in these last years. You’re nearly sixteen and you’ll have to make a decision soon. You can’t make an informed decision without this final piece of experience. You need to know how it feels.”

“Yes sir,” Xander could hear the tremor in his voice and he knew the tailor would hear it too.

“My father taught me," the tailor said. "We had a similar conversation. He told me that he’d read a story once about an apprentice seamstress who’s Mistress worked only in velvet. As the final test of her apprenticeship, she had to make a gown out of a patchwork of small pieces of velvet. The test was, that at the end the dress had to look as if it had been made out of one single piece of velvet.” He reached out and ran a wrinkled finger down the skin on the dummy. “Skin has its own personality and its own quirks in its crafting. But it is malleable under an experienced hand and the needle and thread can be commanded, given time. The skill is part of the craft.” The tailor paused. “There’s a reason I don’t work in velvet,” he said with a wry smile. Xander smiled tentatively back

“On that note, our client will be arriving soon.” The tailor looked at his watch. “Tidy up and take yourself off. I don’t want you here when he arrives.”

Xander nodded and hurried back to the ironing board. Tipping it on its end, he pushed the small lever that released the legs and allowed him to push them flat. He bent down and slid it out of the way under the bottom shelf that held the lowest grades of muslin and calico, used for making toiles. Standing up, he tested the iron with his finger and, satisfied that it had cooled enough, he bent again and slid it under the shelf, next to the ironing board.

As he straightened, he noticed that the tailor was watching him with something like approval in his eye He flushed and glanced away before meeting the old man’s gaze.

“That’ll do,” the tailor said. “You can go now. We’ve still got fifteen minutes grace before our client arrives.”

Not wanting to argue, Xander skirted the edge of the work table and the sewing machine. The curtain in the doorway was still pushed to one side from when the tailor had come in earlier. He entered the front of the shop and unbuttoned his work jacket, slipped it off and hung it neatly on its peg by the door. Grabbing his flannel shirt from the adjacent peg, he pulled it on, not bothering to do up the buttons. He turned back towards the workroom, intent on saying his farewells to the tailor when the words died in his throat as the bell above the front door chimed once.

Xander turned and saw Dollfus in the doorway, a leather satchel hanging from one narrow shoulder. “Leaving so soon?” he said. “But the fun part is just about to begin.”

“I was just...just,” Xander stuttered and stopped, unsure what to say, and even more unsure why he felt so disturbed in having to justify himself to this man.

“I gave him permission to leave,” the tailor said from behind him and Xander glanced back over his shoulder to see the tailor standing at the entrance to the workroom, one hand resting on the curtain. “He’s finished for the day. A growing boy needs his sleep if I’m going to get any work out of him tomorrow.”

Dollfus let the door to the shop swing closed behind him and walked slowly over to the counter, resting an elbow casually on the polished surface. “Such consideration for your staff, I’m impressed. Normally I would applaud. Good help is so hard to find and sleep is one of the many needs a growing boy has. However, in this case I must insist that he stay.”

“Insist?” the tailor asked.

Xander turned from one to the other, feeling like he was watching a tennis match where he didn’t understand the rules.

“Perhaps insist is too provocative a word,” Dollfus said with a faint smile. “I would appreciate it if he would stay. The next stage in our transaction will work best if all parties who have been involved are present.”

“And if I say the boy hasn’t been involved?”

Leaning forward on the counter, Dollfus raised an eyebrow. “Why would you say such a thing when it isn’t true? You are the Master and he the servant. Would you give up the opportunity to educate? You said that before creativity, there is learning and discipline. I’m sure that you must have used your own hard-won skill to instruct the boy in another facet of your craft.”

“Very true,” the tailor replied and bowed slightly. “The boy helped by fetching and carrying, but he set no stitch and laid no bare hand on the skin.”

“As it should be.” Dollfus nodded approvingly. “I’m not paying a craftsman to have a servant do the work. But as he has been involved, even in an insignificant way, I really do need him to stay.”

“Of course,” the tailor replied and turned to Xander. “Another lesson. What a customer requests, a customer always gets, if at all possible. In this case, I must ask you to stay a little longer.”

“Yes sir," Xander said quietly. “Do you want me change back into my work jacket.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, unless our client has any objection?” The tailor glanced back at Dollfus, who shook his head.

“Don’t put yourself to the trouble on my account. However if the boy wants to take off that deplorable over-shirt, I certainly won’t object. There could be half a dozen boys hiding in there and we’d never know.”

Xander grabbed the edges of his shirt and pulled it closer to him, wondering if he’d cause offense if he actually did up the buttons. After a moments consideration, he compromised by clasping his hands in front of him and holding tightly to the hem. He hoped his knuckles weren’t white.

With a chuckle, Dollfus walked past him and paused by the tailor. “Shall we get down to business?”

“Of course,” the tailor replied and gestured him onward into the workroom.

With a glance at Dollfus as he brushed past the curtain, the tailor turned back to Xander. “Stay quiet, watch me for guidance and keep out of the way, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Xander whispered.

“Good, now go in.”

Xander uncurled his hands from the front of his shirt and walked into the workroom. The tailor followed.

Dollfus placed his leather satchel on the work table, then wandered over to stand by the dummy. The tailor nudged Xander towards his stool and walked forward. He reached up for the cranking handle in the neck of the dummy and turned it until the base rotated and the front came into view.

Xander watched, wondering what it was like to see it for the first time. He’d seen the tailor working his magic over the previous nights, seen each piece moulded to the form of the dummy, witnessed the old man placing stitch after careful stitch, muttering under his breath as he ran gnarled fingers over the seams until the stitches seemed to melt into the skin. He’d seen the skin almost glow as the pieces came together to make one glorious whole, as if they were happy to be reunited, to be living again in another form. Xander glanced across at Dollfus and wondered what he saw.

Dollfus circled the dummy, pausing every now and then to tilt his head, as if looking for another perspective. Finally he returned the front and stepped back until he was standing by Xander’s stool. He placed a hand on Xander’s shoulder and looked across at the tailor. “You decided it should be a dress?”

The tailor nodded. “As I explained at the outset, I don’t always know what form the finished garment will take. I have to let the skin speak to me and see if its needs marry with the needs of the commission. The dress is the result of that conjunction. Does it please you?”

“It’s very fine. I think it will do nicely for its purpose. So now I think we should seal the deal, as it were. I will need you to stand to the left of the dummy, and you, my boy,” Dollfus squeezed Xander’s shoulder, “you will need to stand on the right.”

Xander looked up at Dollfus, startled, then glanced at the tailor for guidance. The old man nodded and Xander stood and went to the point that Dollfus had indicated. He could still feel the weight of the man’s hand on his shoulder and he breathed through the need to brush his shoulder with his other hand, wiping away the feel of Dollfus’ grip. He looked briefly at Dollfus who was rummaging through the satchel he’d set on the table, then back to the tailor who stood impassively, his gaze fixed on Dollufus’ back.

Dollfus turned round, a small metal bowl and pitcher in his hands. He bent down in front of the dummy, pulled the stopper out of the pitcher and poured what looked like water into the bowl. Straightening up, he placed the pitcher back on the table. He lifted a battered leather pouch, opened it and walked anti-clockwise, scattering something dark around the base of the dummy. Xander and the tailor stood outside the circle. As he finished and stood up, Dollfus smiled and this time Xander felt a shudder travel the full length of his spine.

“Now we can begin,” Dollfus said. “We have a perfect union of elements."

He stepped to the side, stood in front of Xander and bowed. “We have young skin and innocence.”

He took three steps to the left and bowed again to the tailor. "We have old skin and experience.”

He stepped back to the middle. This time he didn’t bow. “We have dead skin made new again.”

Kneeling, he lifted a handful of the dark substance from the floor and let it run through his fingers. “We have earth.”

He opened his arms wide. “We have air.”

He brought his hands together and lifted the bowl in front of him. “We have water.”

Placing the bowl back on floor, he held his right hand over it, his fingers splayed. “We have fire,” he whispered and Xander’s breath hitched as a flame rose on the surface of the water. Dollfus’ fingers glowed in the light.

He began to whisper but Xander couldn’t make out the words. The whisper turned to a chant and the flame on the water got higher, chasing Dollfus outstretched hand as he raised it, inch by enticing inch. Dollfus’ kneel became a crouch and the volume of his voice rose, mirroring the movement of his body. Finally he stood upright.

The impossible fire danced at his command, flickering just below the hem of the dress. The skin glowed in the magical light.

Dollfus opened his arms wide and shouted three times: “Ago, Exsisto , Servo.” The flame leapt into the air and Xander cried out as it seemed to engulf the dummy and the dress. Then Dollfus stepped back, lowered his hand and the flame died back until it was just a flicker on the water, then went out. He smiled and bowed again, his left hand on his heart.

Xander watched as the dress gleamed and shimmered, glowing and pulsing with its own inner light. But with the light came deep shadows at the neckline, the hemline and the ends of the sleeves, then the shadows coalesced into hands and feet and long dark hair. The dress breathed out, stepped away from the dummy and bowed back.

It straightened up and the dark hair parted revealing the pale face of a women.

“Hello Ethan,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N1  
> The story of the apprentice to the seamstress and the task of making the velvet dress out of patchwork pieces was told to me by my lovely beta thismaz, and it really appealed to me when I was starting to write the first sketchy draft of this story. Maz can’t remember where she came across the story – whether it was online, or in a published short story/novel, so I can’t credit the origin. But if anyone recognises where it comes from, please let me know and I’ll credit accordingly.
> 
> A/N2  
> Ethan’s invocation during the spell “Ago , Exsisto , Servo.” means “Live, Be, Serve”  
> Translation, courtesy of http://www.translation-guide.com/free_online_translators.php?from=Latin&to=English since my Latin knowledge boils down to one very ill-advised year long course at school when I was 17, which was not today or yesterday!


	11. Cracks in the World: Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content that some may find disturbing

**Cracks in the World: Chapter 10**

The library was quieter than it had been for the last few days and Giles was surprised to realise that he missed Miss Rosenberg’s excited chatter and wide-eyed questions. She was scheduled to help him with the card indexing he’d been putting off, but they hadn’t settled on any particular time, other than late afternoon. He glanced at the clock on the wall behind the counter. It was only 5.00 pm, so there was plenty of late summer daylight to burn before he should start to worry. It was somehow comforting to know that vampires were constrained by the rise and fall of the sun. It meant that there were clear timelines for any possible cause for concern. The fact that Miss Rosenberg knew about the dangers that lurked after dark was a comfort that flitted, butterfly soft, through his head. That she had Xander to thank for the knowledge was a thought he had yet to reconcile.

He leaned forward, his elbows on the big wooden table in the main part of the library, his chin in his hands, and looked around. The innocuous setting of a California school library hardly fit with the arcane knowledge and traditions that coursed through his blood. If Slayers were called at an older age he might have been a college professor, or a tutor, or any other role that would allow him legitimate access to his charge. But the call always came to a girl in her mid-teens, which meant that in these modern and politically correct times, he had to assume the mantle of school teacher, or guidance counsellor, or some other guise that wouldn’t be questioned. The role of librarian would give him scope for privacy, research and just a hint of mystique that other teaching roles wouldn’t offer. He tried to picture himself as a gym teacher and chuckled. The thought of taking a class of teenage girls in gym wear had a certain appeal, but it wasn’t a sentiment he’d ever share with his Council colleagues or, for that matter, with his Slayer, when she arrived. The last thing he needed was for her to view him as a dirty old man.

The thought brought him back to the present and the absence of Miss Rosenberg. He could tell that she was developing a crush on him. Part of it was definitely the lure of learning new things. She demonstrated all the classic symptoms of a hungry mind looking for stimulation. He was more than happy to answer her questions and point her at suitable reading material to satisfy her curiosity about a wide range of subjects. Conveniently, it also helped to reinforce his image as a widely-read intellectual who most of the students, and almost all the faculty, would be only too eager to avoid once the term started. However, he knew that by encouraging her intellect he could also be accused of encouraging her emotions. There was the obvious attraction of the unusual - the accent, the different use of language and the formality - but he was also vain enough to admit that he didn’t look too bad for his age. His physical regime in preparing for his Slayer meant he was in much better shape than most middle-aged men and, when he looked in the mirror, he wasn’t entirely horrified by what he saw. He wasn’t twenty anymore and it was just as well. At that age he knew that he’d have taken Willow - not Miss Rosenberg, but Willow – he’d have taken Willow’s wide-eyed crush and squeezed every ounce of pleasure out of it, and the stimulation would have been anything but intellectual. It was as well that he’d grown up, because such thoughts had no place in his current environment.

The sound of soft footsteps carried in the silence of the empty school corridor outside of the library. He straightened, checking the table for any incriminating evidence of his calling. The footsteps paused at the library doors and he waited, expectant, for his young helper to come in with her blushes and her boundless enthusiasm. He straightened up further and buttoned his jacket, smoothing it down as if he was polishing armour.

The door swung open and his words of greeting died on his lips as a woman entered. Standing slowly, he placed his hands flat on the table in front of him. For a second he couldn’t place her, but then the echo of wicked laughter tumbled through the years, her face crystallised in his mind and he wondered how he’d ever forgotten. “Dierdre?” he whispered.

“Hello Rupert.”

She smiled.

Giles reached for the leg of his glasses, then jerked his hand back down onto the table and stared at her.

She stood just inside the doorway, her dark hair was swept up and back, away from her face. Her skin was as pale as he remembered, with just a hint of colour on her lips. She looked older than the picture in his head, but they were all older. The years had been kind to her and her waist was still trim and her hips gently curved. His fingers twitched on the tabletop at the memory of running his fingers feverishly through her hair; of tracing a line from her throat, around her breasts, across her belly and the groove of her hips, before dipping inside her. For an instant it seemed as if she was naked in front of him. He could almost see every inch of the skin he’d once caressed, laid bare. As if she’d stripped and stood shameless in front of him, framed, like a work of art, by the library doors. He blinked and the impression vanished in a puff of inhaled breath. He breathed out and looked again. She wore a pale pink summer dress which was cut low, but not immodestly, across her breasts and draped seductively across every curve. It fluttered around her calves as she took a step forward. The dress was completely unadorned. Giles thought he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful in his life.

“Surprised to see me?” she asked, taking another step forward. He noticed absently that her shoes were the same colour as her dress and the small bag that dangled from her right hand was scarlet silk with an elaborate drawstring at its neck.

“It’s unexpected,” he replied. “Delightful of course, but unexpected.”

“Why thank you, kind sir.” She dropped a low curtsy, then rose gracefully. The edge of her dress brushed the floor and Giles hoped that it was clean enough not to get dust on the pale material.

Pushing his chair out of the way with the back of his knee, he left the sanctuary of the table and walked across the floor, until he was standing in front of her. “You look wonderful,” he said, and she laughed.

“You always did know just the right thing to say, didn’t you?” She reached up, placed on hand on his shoulder and stood on tiptoe to brush her lips lightly across his cheek before stepping back. Her lips were soft and cool against his skin.

He stiffened – ‘vampire’ skittering across his brain – but the late-afternoon sunlight filtering in from the windows high in the back wall put the momentary fear to rest. He relaxed and she took another step back and tilted her head. “You look pretty wonderful yourself,” she said. “Better than poor Phillip, anyway. He looked positively middle-aged the last time I saw him.”

“Yes, well...” Giles stumbled to a halt. He gave himself a mental shake. “I’m sorry, I’m not being very polite. You took me somewhat by surprise. Would you like some tea and then you can tell me why you’re here, and how long for?”

“Why not,” she said.

Giles nodded and gestured for her to go ahead of him towards his office.

Once inside, he shook the kettle, checking the amount of water in it, before switching it on. His hands went through the familiar ritual of measuring tea leaves out of the caddy and decanting them into the small infuser ball that would go into the teapot once it was properly warmed, but the rest of his body was conscious of her at his back. He could smell her perfume; it was spicy and sweet, not quite the patchouli oil she’d worn when they’d first met, something more subtle, more grown up, and entirely her. The kettle boiled and he poured water into the pot and swirled it, before adding the rest and dropping the tea ball into the water. He turned around.

She was perched on the far edge of his desk, her fingers stroking idly over the empty journal that still lay on top of the pile of papers he had yet to file. She was watching him.

I always loved your hands,” she said. “Such strong capable hands – whether you were playing guitar or playing with fire - you always gave it such focus, such concentration. Watching you handling the tea things, no one would dream of the other things those hands can do – have done.” She slid off the desk and closed the small space between them. “Remind me,” she whispered and ran a fingertip across his jaw before hooking her hand behind his neck, pulling him down towards her. He resisted, for just a moment, then surrendered and melted under her touch.

They kissed, slowly, languorously, for a long minute, his fingers coming up to run through her hair, before she pulled away. “We’d better stop,” she said with a laugh. “I don’t want to wrinkle my dress.”

Giles straightened up with a sigh and took a step back. “No, we wouldn’t want that to happen,” he agreed ruefully. In his mind, he was relieved that she’d pulled back before he came in his pants like a school boy, but his body was still vibrating with a physical attraction that he hadn’t felt in years. He covered his confusion by turning back to the teapot and pouring out two cups. When he turned around she was back sitting on the edge of the desk, the skirt of her dress draped gracefully around her crossed legs. “I do have chairs, you know,” he said with a smile.

“Why sit on a chair when you can perch on a desk?” she answered with a smile of her own.

“Comfort, possibly,” Giles replied.

“Maybe you’re just getting old?”

Giles shrugged. “Maybe I am. And on that note, I have tea, but I’m afraid it’ll have to be black,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting visitors, and I like my tea unadulterated.

“Poor Rupert.” She accepted the cup and saucer he offered her and put it down on the desk beside her. “Has some awful American put cream and sugar in your Earl Grey? How very vulgar of them.”

“Indeed,” he said with a small smile. “So what brings you to Sunnydale? Or even to the US? I seem to remember you had very firm views about Americans.”

“I still do, but I had an errand that overcame my natural born taste.”

“It must have been pressing.”

“It was. It is.” She paused and reached for the silk bag she had left on the chair next to the desk and placed it on the scarred wooden surface, next to her teacup. She looked up. “You didn’t want to be a Watcher, Rupert. You ran from it. You put two fingers up to tradition and said you were going to spit in destiny’s eye.”

“I did,” Giles acknowledged. “But, you’ll remember, destiny spat back, if you’ll pardon the image. Randall died.”

“He did,” she agreed. “Then you ran again. But this time you ran back to the fold, embraced your inner Watcher and tied your future to the fate of a teenage girl you’d never met.”

Giles picked up his teacup and took a long, slow drink before replying. “I’m not proud of the choices I made when I was younger, Dierdre,” he said. “I can’t change what happened, but I do have a say in what happens now. I have a say in what happens in the future.”

“You really believe that?”

“Yes.” He put his cup back down on the desk. A splash of tea slopped into the saucer.

“You wanted to know what my pressing errand was?” She loosened the draw string at the neck of her bag and pulled out a small, leather bound book. “I came across this. I thought you should have it.”

“What is it?”

She held out the book and he took it. Despite its size, it felt heavy in his hand. Turning it over, he opened the front cover and froze before looking back up at her. “The Pergamum Codex? But, but it was lost centuries ago.”

She shook her head. “Not lost. Misplaced. Don’t ask how I got it, you really don’t want to know, but I thought a Watcher should have a book of Slayer prophecies.” She leaned back on the desk, her hands braced behind her. The smooth drape of her dress outlined the soft curves of her breasts. “You remember prophecies, don’t you Rupert? The things that tell you what happens in the future? You know, that thing you think you have a say in?”

“Dierdre, why are you giving me this now?”

“Page forty-two. You should read it,” she said.

His hand trembled slightly as he turned the ancient pages. The scholar in him thought distantly that he really should be wearing gloves, but somehow it didn’t seem important. He stopped at the page she’d indicated and his finger traced down the faded writing. He sounded out the words silently as he read, until there were no more words, only empty space on the page and in his brain. He closed the book, blindly put it down on the desk between them and stared at the floor.

“She’s going to die, Rupert,” she said quietly. “She’s not even here yet. Not even yours and she’s going to die.”

“Every Slayer dies.” The words felt like they were crawling out of his mouth, letter by bitter letter.

“And a new one is called and she dies in her turn. That’s your Watchers Council for you. They watch and girls die. Rinse and repeat. And that’s why you ran in the first place. What will you do when she dies, because the Codex says she will? Where will you run then, Rupert? Who will you run to?”

“Why did you come, Dierdre?”

“Because you had to know. Not just in theory. But in here” She laid her hand briefly over his heart and he was torn between the desire to push forward into her touch and the need to pull away from the reality of her words. He took a step back. “You had to understand,” she said.

Sliding off the edge of the desk, she smoothed the folds of her dress down over her hips and across her belly. Again, Giles had a brief sensation that he could see right through to her skin, the way the pale material shimmered in the artificial office light, but he knew that was just an effect of the tears that had gathered. Tears that he wouldn’t let fall.

Fishing through her bag, she pulled out a piece of paper with a series of numbers on it. “I’ll be around for a few days. You can contact me on that number if you want to.” She brushed her fingers down his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll understand if you blame me, if you want to shoot the messenger, but you had to know.” Her hand rested briefly over his. “I hope you’ll call.”

She turned, walked out of the door and was gone.

Giles stood, listening to the sound of her footsteps as they faded to nothing. He turned and stared at his desk as if he’d never seen it before. The teapot sat at the far corner, out of the way. The paperwork he’d been avoiding was in a neat stack in the filing tray, with the journal sitting on top. He hadn’t written a single sentence yet and his hand trembled as he realised that he already knew, really knew, what his last entry would look like.

The Codex sat innocuously on the scarred wooden desktop next to her abandoned teacup. In a corner of his mind he noticed she hadn’t touched her tea.


	12. Cracks in the World: Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content that some may find disturbing

**Cracks in the World: Chapter 11**

Willow glanced at her watch. “I’m going to be late,” she said.

Xander shot her a sideways look and kept walking. “No you’re not.”

“I am. It’s nearly 5.30, so I’m late. Mr Giles is going to decide I’m not trustworthy and he’s going to stop asking me to help him. Then Snyder’s going to ask why I’m not helping and he’ll tell my parents and I’ll lose the extra credit. School hasn’t even started yet and it’s already a disaster.”

“Willow, stop,” Xander said, slipping one arm around her shoulders. He shook her gently. “What time did you arrange to meet the book guy?”

“Well, we didn’t exactly arrange a time,” she replied. “But I planned to be there by a quarter after and it’s way past that.” Sliding out from under his arm, she stopped and wagged her finger at him. “So I’m late, see?”

Xander rolled his eyes. “God forbid I should be the voice of reason, but that makes a sense that’s really not. He might be Mr tweedy, accent guy, but I don’t think he’s got super, psychic powers inside that British brain of his. If you didn’t agree a time, and he doesn’t know what you were thinking, you can’t be late.”

“When did you get to be the logical one?” She folded her arms and Xander chuckled.

“Hah! That’s me, baby - Xan, Xan, logical man. It’s my super power.” He turned around, stuck out his tongue and started walking backwards along the path. Willow shook her head at him before she followed. She was sensible enough to walk properly.

“Is that right?” she giggled. “And like most super powers, you do your best to keep it under wraps so no one will suspect.”

“Drat, busted,” he replied. He glanced past her shoulder and the rest of his reply died on his lips at the sight of a dark haired woman exiting the side door at the far end of the main school building. For a moment he thought his eyes were playing tricks in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the trees edging the paths around the school. But then she turned.

She looked different in the daylight, in the open air, than she had in the dancing light of the magical flame in the tailor’s workroom. She looked alive – it was the only word his brain would supply, although he knew it was ridiculous. Her dress shimmered in the sunlight. He watched as she paused at the corner of the building where two paths met and looked around, as if she was looking for something, or someone. He held his breath as she glanced his way just for an instant, before turning to greet the tall man who emerged from of the shadows of the trees. It was Dollfus.

Willow broke into his thoughts. “Are you okay?”

“What?” he stumbled to a halt, his eyes still fixed on Dollfus and his companion.

Willow turned around, following his gaze. “Xander, do you know them?”

“What?” He looked at her, startled. “Um, no. I thought I recognised them, but the sun got in my eyes and it must have been a trick of the light.” He ran one hand through his hair. “It’s just weird seeing other people on school grounds, that aren’t us or British librarians.”

“The school grounds are open to the public when school’s out. There’s no reason they shouldn’t be here. Is there?” she asked, looking over at the couple and then back at Xander.

“No, no, you’re right,” he replied. “There’s no reason other folk shouldn’t be here, but it’s the principle of the thing. Being on school grounds when school isn’t in, is just wrong.”

She laughed and he smiled back, slung his arm over her shoulders and drew her along the curve of the path towards the main school entrance as quickly as he could without creating even more questions. They reached the entrance and he held the door open for her and she walked over the threshold into the cool hallway beyond. Xander paused, his gaze drawn back along the line of the building to the far end. Dollfus stood at the pathway intersection and, as Xander watched, he bowed once, his hand flourishing like an old-fashioned courtier, before straightening up and taking the arm of his companion. They turned and disappeared back into the shadow of the trees.

Willow turned just inside the hallway and walked back a few steps to the door. She tapped Xander on the arm. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, sure, I’m fine. Come on, I need to deliver you safe and sound to the tweed guy before I head for work.” Grabbing her by the elbow, he started down the corridor.

“I didn’t realise you were working tonight.” Willow said.

“I’m not, officially, but my boss has some stuff he needs help with and he’s been good with getting me the extra hours while schools out, so I don’t want to let him down.”

“Look at you with the work ethic.” She gave his arm a squeeze and he smiled briefly.

“Yep, that’s me, work ethic guy.” He paused in front of the library doors. “And right now, I’m delivering Willow to the library, guy.” He pushed the door open.

The library was empty, although the pile of books and small index cards on the main table suggested that Mr Giles wasn’t far off.

“He’s probably in the office,” Willow said. “I’ll just check in and see what he wants me to do and you can get to work.”

“I’ll check in too,” Xander replied. “Make sure he knows you weren’t late, because I know darn well you’re probably going to start apologising.”

“Xander!”

“I know you.” He knocked on the closed door of the library office but there was no answer so he took a side step to peer through the blinds on the internal window, next to the door. He could see the librarian sitting parallel to his desk, staring at an old book on his lap. He was motionless. He glanced back at Willow. “He’s in there.” He knocked on the door again, then pushed it open and took a hesitant step into the office, Willow at his back. “Mr Giles?” he said.

Giles didn’t stir.

“Mr Giles,” Xander repeated. “Are you okay?”

Giles started and grabbed at the book as it began to slide off of his lap. He closed it with a snap and placed it on the desktop. “What?” he said.

“Are you okay?” Xander asked again. “I knocked, but you didn’t reply. We were worried.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” Giles stood abruptly and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “You startled me, that’s all. I was just taking a break.” He smiled briefly. “I no longer have the energy or stamina I did when I was younger, I’m afraid, and sometimes I have to remind myself to stop.”

“Okay,” Xander said slowly. He looked anything but okay and the one thing Xander had learned from the tailor was the way different materials reacted under stress. The pockets of the tweed jacket Mr Giles was wearing were distorted, putting a strain on the seams, and Xander had no doubt that the librarian’s hands were curled into fists.

“Shall we go out onto the floor? Miss Rosenberg, could I impose on you to do some of the card indexing we discussed yesterday. It’s a tedious task, but a necessary one.”

“Of course. And I’m sorry I’m late, Mr Giles.”

“Willow,” Xander said. “You’re not late. Please tell her she’s not late.”

“You’re certainly not late. In fact, it would have been inconvenient if you’d been here any earlier.”

Xander looked at the man sharply, but by the time he turned to Willow he’d schooled his expression into a smile. “See, I told you. And I think I’m being pretty restrained, not going right to the ‘nah, nah, na na, nah.’”

“Yes, well, thank you for your self control,” Giles intervened. “There is, however, work to be done. I don’t suppose you’re going to stay and help Miss Rosenberg, Mr Harris?”

“That would be a no.” Xander glanced back at the librarian’s jacket. His hands were no longer in the pockets, but the tweed still held the echo of the strain of fingers bunched into fists. Xander looked from Mr Giles to Willow and back to Mr Giles. “Actually, normally that would be a no, but you know, I’m thinking I might actually have to do some real school work this year, so maybe checking out some of the books might not be a bad idea.”

“Well, that’s most unexpected, Mr Harris.”

“Xander, remember we settled on Xander when we ran into each other last night.”

“Yes, of course.

And if I stay - ” Xander continued.

“You ran into each other last night?” Willow interrupted.

“Mr Giles was out for a walk and I was on my way to work,” Xander replied. “Anyway as I was saying, if I stay,” he glanced at Willow and grinned, “I get to keep contradicting Willow every time she tries to apologise for something she hasn’t done, like being late.”

“I think we have already agreed that Miss Rosenberg wasn’t late.”

Willow took Xander’s hand. “Much as I’d love you to stay, you’ve got work. You promised your boss you’d be in. You know you can’t just break a promise like that.”

“But - ” Xander started to protest, then stopped and sighed. “Shoot, you’re right. I did promise...”

He felt the pressure as her small hand squeezed his and she smiled up at him. “See, that was easy. Get to work and leave us to our card indexing. If you’re that enthusiastic about checking out the library, I’ll meet you here another day before school starts and Mr Giles can give you the proper tour.”

“And isn’t that something to look forward too.” Willow smile became a frown and Xander held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, I’ll go. But you’ll call your parents and get a ride home?”

Giles cleared his throat. “I could take Miss Rosenberg home, if that would be acceptable? I suspect card indexing will become tedious very quickly, so I was planning on finishing at 7:00." He looked at Willow. "I can drop you off on the way, and you won’t have to bother your parents."

"That would be great, thank you,” Willow replied. She turned to Xander. “See, all sorted. So now you can go to work and not worry.”

There was nothing he could do but exit gracefully, resign himself to wondering and worrying about Dollfus and his companion and leave Willow with a man who might have secrets of his own. He manufactured a smile. “Yeah, nothing to worry about,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Willow. See you, Mr Giles.”

He left the library and walked swiftly along the corridor to the main doors and out of the school. He ignored the criss cross pattern of concrete paths and headed straight across the lawn in the front of the main building, looking around warily in case Dollfus and his companion were still around. But there was only the rustle of the late summer wind in the trees and the silence of the empty school yard.

Hurrying down the street, he manoeuvred his way through the early evening cafe crowd in the prosperous neighbourhood near the university, and out towards the ragged edges of town, his walk getting quicker and quicker with every block he travelled. Ducking under the barbed wire fence blocking the entrance to the old railroad tracks he glanced at his watch and cursed. He started to run. He followed the line of the railroad and the stones between the old ties scattered under his feet. Finally, he reached the edge of the viaduct and scrambled down the banking to the edge of the viaduct. Catching his breath, he plunged into the tunnel and followed its familiar curves to the tailor’s shop. As he entered, the innocence of Willow’s worried ramble about being late seemed a world away.

The tailor looked up as Xander entered. “You’re late,” he said sharply.

“I know, I’m sorry. Something happened. I saw something earlier. Something strange.”

The tailor chuckled. “In this town? You’ll have to be more specific than that. But strangeness in Sunnydale is still no excuse for being tardy.”

“I said I’m sorry.” Xander cut himself off. “I’m sorry...I didn’t mean to be rude.”

The old man studied him. “Come back into the workshop. You can tell me there.” He didn’t wait for an answer, just turned and pushed through the curtain, as if he couldn’t conceive that Xander wouldn’t obey.

Xander followed.

“Sit.” The tailor gestured to Xander’s usual stool and he sat. “Now what did you see?”

Xander stared at his sneakers, trying to order his thoughts before looking up. “I was walking Willow to the library so she could help the new librarian. That’s when I saw her.”

“Who?” the tailor asked with a frown.

“The woman” He pointed towards the tailor’s dummy which was now draped with an innocuous piece of dark blue silk. “The dress. The woman with the dress. The one we made. That Dollfus made.” He paused. “I’m sorry, I’m not making much sense. It, she, was on school grounds. She saw me. Then he arrived. Dollfus, I mean. He waved at me. I was with Willow and he waved at me. I was with Willow and he was with her. With it. What was he doing on school grounds?”

The tailor leaned back against the sewing machine. “Perhaps he was taking a short cut, or a stroll. Who knows?”

Xander shook his head. “No. After I saw them, we went to the library and Mr Giles looked like he’d seen a ghost. He said he was okay. That he was just tired. But he was really shaken. And he’d been looking at an old book. I didn’t get a chance to see what it was called, but it wasn’t any school book. It reminded me of some of the books you look at sometimes. The ones you keep locked away.”

“Perhaps he’s a collector,” the tailor replied. “As a librarian, it would make sense.”

“But he was really freaked. He tried to hide it. To be all British and stuff. But it was like he’d had a shock. And the lady was on campus with Dollfus. She was coming out of the main building, where the library is. I don’t think anyone else is in school at the moment, so she had to have been to see Mr Giles.” He broke off and stared at the way his fingers were curled around his knees, before looking back up at the tailor. “What did we make? What does Dollfus want?”

“We executed a commission for a customer,” the tailor said sharply. “What we made was a dress. What our client’s purpose is, is not our concern.”

“But...”

“No buts.”

Xander opened his mouth to protest again and the tailor stared at him. Xander dropped his eyes. “Yes sir,” he said quietly.

“Xander...”

“Yes, sir?” He couldn’t remember the last time the tailor had actually called him by his name.

“I understand your question,” the old man said. “Believe me, I do. The curiosity of youth is insatiable. But you will have to learn to channel it into your work and your creativity. You are the servant, and soon to be the apprentice. One day you will be the Master with a servant of your own. But even as the Master, you are still the servant to your customers and there are questions you never ask.”

“Yes sir,” he said again. He knew didn’t sound convincing, even to himself.

“Now it’s time to do some work. I noticed some of the older skins are getting dry. You can help me by oiling the one I’ve just prepared.”

Xander rubbed restlessly on the legs of his jeans. He looked up to see the old man was still standing by the sewing machine watching him and he felt a sudden urge to give voice to every question he’d ever thought of, about the tailor’s work, but had never asked. The tailor raised his eyebrows and Xander held his tongue, got up from his stool and crossed to the work table. Behind him, the rings on the curtain pole clattered twice. Then he was alone.

He grabbed a can of neatsfoot oil from a cubbyhole next to the worktable, soaked a soft cloth and began to work it into the skin that was stretched out on the polished wooden surface. His hand was a metronome, moving back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, creating its own hypnotic rhythm. A tsunami of voices tumbled in his head.

_“Ah, the great coming of age. The boy becoming a man. Trite, but somehow appropriate.”_

He poured oil onto the cloth.

_“There’s knowing about the Sunnydale stuff and being prepared in theory, and then there’s knowing about it. You know?"_

He applied the cloth to the old skin, rubbing gently.

_“If you feel the boy is in need of another mentor – another pair of hands as it were – I’d be delighted to oblige.”_

He poured oil onto the cloth.

_“You are the Master and he the servant. Would you give up the opportunity to educate?”_

He applied the cloth to the old skin, rubbing gently.

_“Once day you will be the Master with a servant of your own.”_

He poured oil onto the cloth

_“Hello Ethan.”_

He took a shuddering breath.

_“Xander, do you know them?”_

He poured oil onto the cloth.

_“Xander, do you know them?”_

He poured oil onto the cloth.

_“Xander, do you know them?”_

He poured oil on the cloth.

His hands shook and his fingers curled, gripping hard and the oil overflowed and oozed out across the skin.

Stifling a cry, he put the can down on the edge of the table, spread out the cloth and tried desperately to soak up the oil. But the more he tried, the more it spread, unrelenting, creeping into every crack and crease, until every inch of the skin was tainted and spoiled.

He had no idea what to do to make things right.


	13. Cracks in the World: Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content that some may find disturbing

**Cracks in the World: Chapter 12**

 

Xander was walking fast, his head down. He didn’t notice the battered Citroen stop just before the intersection until a voice interrupted his muddled thoughts.

“Mr Harris. Xander.”

Startled, Xander looked across. He stopped.

Mr Giles was at the wheel of the old car, his car door partially open. “I wondered if you needed a lift anywhere?” he called. “I’m taking Miss Rosenberg home and you look like you’re in a hurry to get to your destination.

Jogging across the empty street, Xander stopped at the side of the car. He leaned on the top of the door and peered in. Willow sat in the passenger seat. “No, I’m...” he stopped. His gaze was drawn downwards towards the pockets of Giles jacket. They were smooth, leaving no evidence that the material had ever been strained by hands bunched into fists. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “You’re being polite and I’m not. If it’s okay, I’ll ride along as far as Willow’s and walk from there.”

“Of course,” Giles replied.

Xander opened the door and slid into the back seat. The Citroen growled back into life as Giles guided it towards Willow’s house. Staring out of the window, Xander watched as the scattering of auto repair shops and consignment stores slowly gave way to small boutiques and delicatessens, houses with columns, porches and back yards big enough for swing sets, paddling pools and a permanent barbeque set up.

Willow turned in her seat and frowned at him. “How come you’re not at work? You can’t have been there more than an hour.”

Xander let his head flop back on the seatback and sighed before looking back at her. “I had a bit of an accident tonight. Ruined a piece of stock and my boss wasn’t happy. Said I didn’t have my mind on my work and I should go home and get my head straight.”

“Xander,” she started and he held up his hand.

“Please, don’t start. I could do without the lecture, okay?”

“Okay,” she said quietly.

Xander sighed again. “Sorry Willow, I didn’t mean to snap. That’s why I was walking. I was trying to shake my mood before I head home.”

“Okay,” she repeated with a tentative smile.

The car came to a halt outside Willow’s house. He got out abruptly and opened the passenger door for Willow. “You going to be okay?” she said softly.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

She hugged him briefly then bent down to look across at Giles. “Thanks for the ride, Mr Giles,” she said, before running up the steps to her front door. She turned and waved, then disappeared in the house. Xander took a deep breath and started to close the car door.

“Are you sure you want to walk from here?” Giles asked. “It’s no trouble to drop you off at home.”

Xander nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’m over on the south side. It’d take you out of your way and I could do with the air.” He glanced up at the lit up windows of Willow’s parent’s house before looking back at Giles. “Thanks for giving Willow a ride.”

“My pleasure.” Giles replied. He paused. “I’m sorry you’ve had a bad night. You will be careful, won’t you?”

“Sure, I’m always careful.”

Xander closed the door and turned away. He began to walk. He didn’t look back. Gradually, his steps became faster, then the walk became a jog and the closer he got, the more important it felt like he should already be at his destination, just in case – just in case of what, he had no idea. His jog became a run.

Finally he reached the corner of the street where Dollfus lived. He paused, bending over, hands on his knees to get his breath back, then straightened up and stared at the old town house he’d visited the week before. A thin wisp of smoke wafted out of the chimney and a light was on in the hallway. The porch glowed in the soft light of the reproduction carriage lamp that was fixed to the wall above the doorway. A shadow passed behind the stained glass panel in the centre of the door. Xander grit his teeth and walked forward, his footfall sounding loud to his ears in the empty street.

He walked slowly up the steps, his hands loose at his sides and he was glad that this time he wasn’t hampered by a heavy wooden box. Reaching up, he pulled on the old fashioned brass bell and it chimed once. He waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. The sound of footsteps, like a drumbeat, got louder and a shadow got bigger and bigger, until it seemed to suck up all the light on the other side of the door. There was the click of a key turning in the lock and the door swung open.

“Well, if it isn’t the tailor’s boy. What a delightful surprise.” Dollfus smiled and leaned casually against the door jamb. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he paused. “Or perhaps I shouldn’t ask. Something about gift horses and mouths springs to mind.”

“I, I...” Xander stuttered to a halt, suddenly having no idea what to say. “I need to ask you something,” he said.

“Won’t you come in?” Dollfus pushed himself upright and gestured back along the hallway.

Xander could see light spilling from the room at the end. He had a sudden image of a spider and a fly and took a small step back. “Actually, you know, it’s nothing. I was passing and I saw the light was on. I should go.”

“Nonsense. The unexpected visitor is so often the most delightful. They provide so much more interesting entertainment than the planned for guest, I often find. I was feeling quite bored this evening."

“But –“

“The impulsiveness of youth,” Dollfus said with a chuckle. “I had forgotten how the young so often don’t have the courage to follow through on their impulses.” He turned and walked away down the corridor, just as he’d done on the previous occasion. He left the door open.

Xander cursed quietly under his breath and stepped over the threshold. After an instant’s hesitation, he pushed the door almost closed, but not quite, slipped the key out of the lock and put it in his pocket. One thing he’d learned growing up in Sunnydale, was that a good exit plan was always a smart idea. He followed in Dollfus’ footsteps and the weight of the key in the pocket of his jeans and the slight breath of air wafting through the gap in the door felt reassuring.

Dollfus was leaning up against the ornate fireplace when Xander entered the room. A small fire burned brightly in the grate. “Please, sit down,” he said. “I’d offer you something to drink, but I don’t think I have anything quite sweet enough for your taste.” He lifted the crystal tumbler sitting on the mantle. “Pink Gin,” he said. “I suspect you wouldn’t like it, but I do appreciate a little bit of bitters in my refreshment.” He took a sip. “I think you’ll grow into that when you’re a little older.”

Xander’s fingers curled into his palms. He bit his tongue and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“You didn’t bring your little friend with you?” Dollfus asked.

“What do you mean?” Xander asked.

“Your little girlfriend. She looked delightful.”

“Don’t you-“ Xander started.

“I’ve seen her in the area when I’ve been taking my morning constitutional, but I had no idea you were close.”

“You stay away from her.”

Dollfus tilted his head and grinned, a shark smile. “My my, quite the little cock sparrow aren’t you, when you’re not being all meek and mild in your Master’s workshop? Are you going to tell her to be wary of me? Are you going to tell her how you know me? I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall for that conversation.”

“You, you...” Xander felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“So having established what you don’t want me to do, perhaps you can tell me what I can do for you?”

“You can leave him alone,” a voice said at Xander’s back and he spun around. Mr Giles was standing in the doorway.

“Mr Giles?” Xander stared at the librarian and then glanced back at Dollfus, who looked amused. “What are you doing here? Do you know each other?”

Dollfus took a delicate sip of his drink and set it down on the mantle. “Mr Giles. How very formal of you, Rupert. Rupert and I go way back, don’t we, Mr Giles?”

“Shut up Ethan,” Giles said, turning to focus on Xander. “I noticed you turned north when you left me, but you said you lived on the south side. You seemed upset earlier. I’m sorry. I was concerned. I’m afraid I saw you running, as if you were in a great hurry, so I followed you and saw you come in here.” He glanced briefly at Ethan. “I saw who answered the door.”

“And you felt you had to save the poor boy from my wicked ways?”

“Shut up Ethan,” Giles repeated.

“But who says he needs saving?”

“I said, shut up Ethan.”

“Ethan. That’s what she called you?” Xander said. “I’d forgotten that.”

“Who called him that, Xander?” Giles asked.

“What?” Xander stopped. He had no idea what to say.

Giles took a few steps forward, away from the doorway. “How exactly do you two know each other?”

Ethan chuckled. “Let’s just say we met through a mutual friend. I think - ”

“He knows my boss, okay.” Xander interrupted. “I was just here to ask him a question.”

“Which you didn’t get to ask because your Mr Giles here rudely interrupted us. Would you like to ask it now?”

Flushing, Xander shook his head. “No, it’s okay. It can wait.”

Giles circled around Xander until he was standing on the opposite end of the fireplace to Ethan. “Did you know that Dierdre was in Sunnydale, Ethan? She visited me today.”

Ethan picked up his drink and studied the contents. “Really? What a remarkable coincidence.”

Reaching over, Giles grabbed the glass and slammed it back down on the mantle. Gin slopped over the rim of the glass, trickled over the edge and dripped onto the hearth below. “I don’t believe in coincidences. Not when there’s a possibility you’re involved. Where is she?”

“Don’t you trust me, Mr Giles?” Ethan shrugged. “I could tell you I don’t know, but you have a distressing habit of not believing me for some reason.”

Giles fingers curled into a fist. “Stop prevaricating, Ethan”

Ethan signed and drummed his fingers on the mantle. “I suppose I can tell you that she’s here. She wanted somewhere to curl up, as it were.”

“Where is she?”

“Right here.” Ethan took a step to the side and tugged at the metal ring handles of the ornate Chinese cabinet in the corner. The second look confirmed that is was just as ugly as Xander remembered. Ethan turned the handle and the doors swung open. The cabinet was empty, except for a rolled up pink bundle on the top shelf.

“What the hell?” Giles asked. “What’s that?”

“Why don’t you ask the boy?”

“What?”

Ethan grinned. “You could tell him, couldn’t you boy?”

Xander looked from one to the other. “But...No...You can’t... I mean, he doesn’t...”

“Or shall I just show him?” In one fluid move, Dollfus grabbed the bundle with one hand and let it unfurl to reveal a shimmering pink dress. He ran his other hand down it as if he was caressing a lover. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

Giles gasped. “What the hell have you done, Ethan?”

Xander shivered.

“A little of this, a little of that.” Ethan reached into a shallow, glass bowl sitting on the top of the cabinet and scooped up some of the same dark earth that Xander had seen in the workshop. “Quite a lot of the other,” he said, and threw the earth on the fire. It flared and the dress seemed to twist and writhe in the firelight, until a woman stood at Ethan’s side, her face covered by long, dark hair.

She raised her head and smiled. “Rupert, how lovely to see you again. We hoped you would call, but a personal visit is so much better. And the boy from the tailor’s shop. How interesting. Does your Master know that you are keeping bad company, my boy?”

Giles stared at her, then grabbed Xander by the arm, hauling him closer. “Xander, what do you know about this?” he demanded. “How are you involved? Don’t you know conjuring with chaos is dangerous?” His fingers dug into Xander’s arm, but his gaze was fixed on Ethan and his creation.

Xander pulled his arm out of Giles grip and side-stepped. “You know about...about stuff. About magic?”

“Of course, he does,” Ethan said. "Your Mr Giles has been flexing his magical muscles since before you were born. Very nice muscles they are.”

“Shut up, Ethan,” Giles snapped. “Yes, Xander, I know about magic. And I knew you are aware of the supernatural, even without this display.”

Xander took another side-step. “What? I mean... How?”

Giles shifted, turning slightly, keeping both Xander and Ethan in view. “You really shouldn’t talk so openly in the library if you’re trying to keep a secret,” he said.

“Loose lips sink ships, my boy,” Ethan drawled.

Giles glanced back towards Ethan. “I swear if you don’t shut up, the only thing that will be loose will be your front teeth when I ram them down your throat,” he said and turned back to Xander. “How are you involved in this, Xander?”

Xander opened his mouth and then shut it again.

“The truth, please, Mr Harris. Or would you rather I just talked to Miss Rosenberg?”

“Is that the little red head’s name?” Ethan said with a smile. “Now I know who to address my billet doux to.”

“I told you, leave her out of this!” Xander shouted. “She’s got nothing to do with anything,” He took a deep breath and looked back at Giles.

“The truth, please,” Giles repeated.

“Okay,” Xander said quietly. “I work in a tailor’s shop. He serves all parts of Sunnydale. Mr Dollfus came in, just over a week ago, and placed a special order. The dress was the result.”

“His name isn’t Dollfus. It’s Ethan Rayne and he’s a chaos mage.” Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. “A dress made of human skin-.”

“How did you know-” Xander interrupted, but he stopped abruptly at the look on Giles face.

“Something like this? It couldn’t be anything else. The fact that you know makes it worse.” Giles shook his head. “You helped make this? And stood by while Ethan created this abomination? I - ”

“Careful, Rupert,” Ethan said. “You’ll hurt Dierdre’s feelings.” He ran his fingers through her hair and she arched into the caress.

“She hasn’t got any feelings to hurt,” Giles replied sharply. “She’s a simulacrum, conjured up to cause mischief. She’s not Dierdre, because I know damn fine Dierdre wouldn’t let you use her like this.” He turned his attention back to Xander. “What were you thinking?”

Xander shook his head. “I didn’t create her. I helped make a dress. I barely even helped. It could have been a suit, or a coat, or a pair of pants, that’s what tailors do, and I help. I do what I’m told. I didn’t know what he wanted it for.”

“Did you ask?”

“No.” Xander slumped down onto the footstool of the chaise longue and put his head in his hands. “No, I didn’t ask. That’s why I came tonight. I saw them on school grounds today and then I realised that you were the only person in the school. You were shaking when we saw you, so I knew something had happened, but I didn’t know what. I didn’t know what the connection was. You had Willow with you, and I needed to know what was going on.”

“And you came here on your own to ask?”

Xander kept his eyes fixed on the floor. “No one ever said I was smart.”

“I think foolhardy is the word that comes to mind,” Giles replied.

“I needed to know what we’d done in making the dress. I needed to know why she’d come to see you.” He looked up at Giles. “I needed to make sure Willow was safe.”

Giles nodded. “She’s safe, don’t worry.”

“Are you two bonding? I’d find it quite touching if it wasn’t so pedestrian.”

Xander stood up. “Why did you want us to make you something?" He stared at the woman. She stood passively by the open cabinet door, her face vacant now Ethan’s focus was elsewhere. "Why did you create her?” He shivered and turned his attention back to Ethan. “Why?” he repeated.

Ethan shrugged. “Why not? Because I could. Because it was fun. Because I was bored. Because-”

“Because,” Giles interrupted. “You were trying to undermine my position in Sunnydale before I even got established.”

“What do you mean?” Xander asked.

“He sent a simulacrum of an old friend to give me some upsetting news. A friend I would trust, the way I wouldn’t have trusted him. She gave me a book of prophecies.”

“Okay,” Xander said slowly. “So if this was a movie, this would be the part where he’d gloat and tell you his evil plan?”

“Can I twirl my moustache as well?” Ethan asked as he reached over and grabbed his drink.

“Shut up,” Xander snapped.

Giles smiled. “But he doesn’t need to tell me his plan. That’s always been Ethan’s trouble. He’s actually quite banal when it comes down to it. He couldn’t even come up with a creative alias.

"He wanted to take away my hope. Rub my face in the inevitable and make sure I didn’t even try to make a difference.”

“I don’t understand?”

“I’m talking about a girl, isn’t that right, Ethan? A girl whom I’ve yet to meet. A girl who’s going to die, but not for a long time if I can help it.”

Xander took a step towards Ethan, but stopped as the weight of Giles hand settled on his shoulder. “You wanted someone to die?” Xander asked.

Ethan picked up his glass and took a sip of his drink. “It was nothing personal,” he said. “Everyone dies eventually. She’s going to die on schedule. It’s just that schedule is a little sooner than for the rest of us. Then again, most people’s deaths aren’t foretold.” He gestured toward Giles with his glass. “Rupert thought he could make a difference. I merely wanted to point out that you can’t change the future. We’re all on our paths and you can’t walk away from the inevitable.

“You created this whole ridiculous, elaborate plan just to give me a message.”

Ethan shrugged. “Where’s the artistry in being straightforward? Complexity is far more interesting.”

“Ethan, you can take your artistry and –“

“Hang on,” Xander interrupted. “Who says you can’t change the future?”

“What?” Giles snapped.

“News flash, it hasn’t happened yet. Just because some mouldy old book says something is going to happen, doesn’t make it true. Maybe this girl will die if you don’t try to change it. Did you ever think of that?”

Giles stared at the small pool of gin that had slopped onto the top of the mantle. Then he looked up at Ethan. “Out of the mouths of babes, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I always thought children should be seen and not heard.” Ethan’s lips twisted as if he’d bitten into something sour.

Giles straightened up. “It’s not going to work, Ethan. I’m staying right here. She’s going to come and I’m going to help her to the best of my ability. When she dies, it will be because whatever it is had to kill me first.”

“Your inflated sense of responsibility, it really was always your most distasteful character flaw, Rupert.” Ethan took another drink and put his glass down on the mantle.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, coming from you, Ethan.” Giles glanced over at the woman standing at Ethan’s side. “And for the love of god, get rid of that thing.”

“You really are no fun.” Ethan turned to Xander. “Would you like her, my boy? You had a hand in making her. I’m sure that would give you lots in common.”

Xander felt his stomach start to churn.

“Don’t be disgusting, Ethan, just finish this.”

“Oh, very well.” Ethan turned to the woman and kissed her once on the lips. Xander could almost hear Giles grind his teeth. Ethan put one hand around her waist, the other cradled the back of her head and he whispered something in her ear. Her head lolled on her shoulders and very slowly she began to deflate, as if someone was sucking all the air out of her body, until she disappeared and all that was left was a pale pink dress draped across Ethan’s arm.

Giles held out his hand and after a momentary pause, Ethan handed it over. Giles grimaced as he folded it up and tucked it under his arm. “Leave town, Ethan,” he said. “I don’t want you around when she arrives.”

“Spoilsport.”

Giles shook his head. “It’s not a game.”

“Of course it is. It’s always been a game. This time I lost, but next time, who knows, I might just win.” He glanced over at Xander. “Who knows who the players will be next time? That’s all part of the fun.”

“Don’t even think about it. Don’t be here tomorrow.”

“Are you running me out of town on a rail, Rupert? You’ve only been in town for five minutes and already you’re embracing America. How disappointing.”

“I’m glad to be a disappointment to you, Ethan. It’s an achievement I’ll cherish.” Giles turned and pushed Xander lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

“I can walk,” Xander replied.

“I’m sure you can, but in this instance I will drive you.” He pushed again and Xander stiffened slightly under the pressure, then relaxed. He allowed Giles to guide him out of the room and up the corridor to the front door. He didn’t look back, but he knew that Ethan was watching them.

Pausing, Xander fished in his pocket and pulled out the key. He put it back in the lock, giving it a twist so it stayed in place. A chuckle sounded at his back and he turned.

Ethan stood at the other end of the corridor. “It’s been fun, my dear boy. Do give your Master my regards. His work really is exquisite, even if some people don’t have the vision to appreciate it.” He paused and smiled. “I look forward to seeing such work from you some day.”

Xander opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again and turned away. He closed the door behind him. Giles was standing by the top step, waiting.

“I think you and I need to have a little chat,” Giles said. “But not tonight. I’ll drive you home and we can meet tomorrow. Come to my flat, where we can have a little privacy. I’ll give you the address.”

Xander felt as if he should argue, but weariness hit him like a wave and he nodded his head. “Okay,” he said.

Giles turned away and walked down the steps and across the road to his car.

Xander followed.


	14. Cracks in the World: Chapter 13

**Cracks in the World: Chapter 13**

 

Giles glanced out of the window into the small courtyard outside of his flat. He could see Xander standing at the top of the steps, looking at his watch. Giles checked his own. It was 9.30.

The late summer air wafting in through the slightly open window promised another beautiful Californian morning that seemed designed solely to remind him that he had only a few short days left before his peace and quiet would be disrupted by a horde of teenagers, who would rather still be out in the sunshine than in school. He consoled himself with the thought that most of them probably wouldn’t come near the library.

As he watched, Xander walked slowly down the steps, glancing at the piece of paper in his hand and then up towards the door. Giles recognised it as the scribbled note with his address that he’d given him the night before. He was tempted to open the door before Xander knocked and keep the boy off balance, but his conscience told him that Xander had been unsettled enough in one 24 hour period, without adding to the pressure. He stood by the window and, after a short wait, was rewarded with the sound of a tentative knock. He opened the door.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’m glad you decided to come.”

“Um, sure,” Xander replied. He paused for a second, as if he was waiting for an invite, then blushed. “Sorry,” he said and stepped over the threshold. “I um, didn’t bring anything. Willow always says it’s good manners to bring something when you visit with someone, especially if it was for the first time, but I didn’t really know what to bring. Didn’t think you’d really be one for donuts. He held up the crumbled paper bag in his hand. “And I kind of ate them both on the way over. He shoved the donut bag into his pocket. “Sorry,” he repeated.

“Don’t be. Please sit down. Can I get you something? I have orange juice, if you would like something cold? Or I’ve just made some tea, if you’d care to join me?”

“Juice would be great, thanks.”

Giles nodded, walked into the small kitchen and pulled a carton of orange juice out of the fridge, then reached for a glass from the cupboard above the sink. He glanced back through the hatchway and saw Xander looking around him. He wondered what was going through the boy’s mind as he took in the shelves of books and the piles of boxes still waiting to be opened? In his own mind, the small flat shrieked of bachelordom. He wondered if Xander would just see it as old?

“Do sit down,” he said, coming back into the room, glass of orange in one hand and a mug in the other. “This room is barely big enough for all my things, so you’re just making it look untidy.”

Xander glanced over at the door and Giles sighed. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “The British may be well known for their manners, but we’re also known for our inappropriate sense of humour.” He returned Xander’s tentative smile and put the glass down on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

Sitting down, Xander started to reach for the glass, but pulled his hands back onto his knees. He looked down at his feet.

Settling into the armchair opposite, Giles studied the boy. “You know this isn’t going to be a very productive conversation if you’re going to sit there looking as if I’m about to give you detention,” he observed.

Xander looked up. “Sorry,” he said again. “I’m not really sure what to say. I guess I’m just a little freaked.”

“I’m not surprised. Ethan Rayne has a tendency to have that effect on people. If you see him again, be sure to tell me. I’ll ensure he doesn’t bother you.”

“How do you know each other?” Xander asked. He picked up his orange juice and took a sip. Giles suspected it was more for the sake of having something to do with his hands than any actual desire for a drink.

“We met when I was a teenager. I was a bit older than you are now and just ripe to kick over the traces and create a little havoc. Ethan was more than happy to encourage me.” He took a drink of his tea and looked at Xander over the rim of the mug. “I won’t go into our exploits, because you really don’t need to know, but you can assume from this recent stunt that he loves to throw a spanner in the works, just because he can. Because he thinks that it will be fun. There was a time when I was of the same mind, but, as you can hopefully tell, I grew up. Ethan did not.”

Xander took another sip of his drink and put it back down on the table. “You said last night he wanted a girl to die? I know he’s creepy, but that’s nuts.”

Giles shook his head. “Ethan doesn’t actively want her to die. He just doesn’t want me to be invested in stopping it from happening. There’s a difference.”

“But why?”

Sighing, Giles leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands cupped around his mug. He could feel the warmth seeping through the pottery. “That’s a very big question. One that’s very difficult for me to answer as truthfully as you might want. Perhaps, before I give you that confidence, you can give me one of your own? Your employer. He’s a tailor, yes? Ethan called him your Master. What did he mean?”

Xander rubbed the side of his face absently, then curled his hand around the back of his neck. “When I was twelve my dad got into debt.” He looked down at the surface of the coffee table, as if was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

“And...” Giles prompted.

Xander glanced up briefly, then back to the table top. “It was a business deal with the mayor and it went south. We needed more money coming in, so dad could keep up with his payments. The mayor told him that he knew someone who needed an extra pair of hands to help with some scut work.” He bit his lip. “My dad thought it was a great idea. The mayor introduced me and I’ve been working ever since. At first just doing the sweeping up, running errands and stuff. Then after a while I started learning the basics of the craft.” He uncurled his hand, brought it down to rest in his lap and looked up at Giles. “I can sew a mean hem.”

Giles smiled. “A talent not to be sneezed at, I can assure you. You’d be surprised how many times over the years I’ve wished I could do the same.” He put his mug down on the table next to Xander’s glass. “I’m bound to say that having to start such employment at that age is deplorable and almost certainly illegal, although I understand you were trying to help your parents. But you said last night your employer serves all parts of the town. You obviously meant that he serves both the normal and supernatural communities, yes?”

“Yeah,” Xander replied. “That’s how I got to know that things weren’t normal in Sunnydale.”

“And your employer, why is he your Master? Are you indentured to him?”

“I don’t understand?”

“Are you officially contracted to him for a fixed time, to help work off your father’s debt, or could you walk away?”

Xander frowned and his hand crept back up around his neck, scratching at the nape. Giles was sure he didn’t even realise he was doing it. “I never really thought about it like that. I mean, he offered me a job and we needed the money. There wasn’t really any discussion. I didn’t think I could say no. But I do need to make a decision when I’m sixteen about whether I want to be his apprentice.”

“So you haven’t long?”

“Couple of months.”

“Then you’ll be tied, yes?”

“I guess so.” Xander paused and his hand slid back down onto his lap again. Giles watched as he started to pick at the hem of his shirt. Giles waited and after the time it took to unravel several inches of thread, Xander looked up. “Tailoring is a good craft,” he said. “He says I’ve got talent. Or I would have if I concentrated. It’s better than looking forward to working in some fast food joint for the rest of my life.”

“I’m sure there is a happy medium somewhere in between the two, Xander,” Giles replied. “But you understand that your employer, your Master, is more than a run of the mill tailor. I assume you’ll be learning the other side of his craft as well, if you are to be helpful in his business?”

Xander picked up his glass again and took a long swallow.

“I’m sorry,” Giles said. “I’m making you uncomfortable and that wasn’t my intention. Does Miss Rosenberg know?”

Grasping the glass tightly, Xander shook his head. “No, she doesn’t know about that bit. She knows I work for a tailor. She knows we had money troubles. She doesn’t ask me, because her parents taught her it’s not polite to talk about money stuff. She knows to be careful at night.”

“Yes, I know that. I heard you both talking in the library last week.”

“Right, I forgot, you said. I needed to know she was safe and could protect herself, but she doesn’t know the full story.”

“But if you only told her half the story, how could you keep her safe?”

“I...I...” Xander stuttered to a halt. “I thought I could keep things apart. I thought I could keep her safe and keep everything separate,” he said softly.

“And you've found that you can't,” Giles replied.

“I was walking her to the library when I saw the woman with the dress coming out. Dollfus met her. He saw Willow. He said last night she looked nice. And the woman came to see you. I didn’t... I didn’t know what to think.

“Or who to trust?” Giles said.

“Yeah. That’s why I went to see him last night. I had to know what was going on.” Xander rubbed his palms down his face. “I needed to know Willow was safe,” he finished.

Giles sighed. “I understand. It was foolish, but I understand.”

Xander leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. His head hung down and he took several deep breaths before sitting back up. Giles could almost see his spine straightening. “So I’ve told you my stuff,” he said. “It’s only fair that it’s your turn.”

Picking up his mug again, Giles took a drink and placed it back on the table. “I suspect that there is a lot more to your stuff, as you call it, than you’ve talked about, but a quid pro quo seems fair.”

Xander frowned.

“I mean, you’ve shown me at least some of yours, so now I should show you mine, as it were.”

Xander nodded. “What about this girl?”

Giles contemplated the mug again, tempted to pick it up, but he knew that he had only recognised Xander’s use of the juice glass as a stalling tactic because he had a similar habit himself. The mug stayed where it was. “Ah yes, the girl. She’s due to start at your high school next week. She kills vampires.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“You Master makes garments out of human skin. Which scenario seems the more bizarre?”

“Okay, point. So she kills vampires. How?

“The usual ways. Stake through the heart and holy water you are obviously familiar with. Also beheading, setting them on fire, they are all effective. She’s stronger and faster and tougher than the beasts she fights. It’s her mission to eradicate them like vermin, wherever she finds them.”

“But you said last night you hadn’t met her yet, so how do you know?”

Giles gave in to his habits and picked up his mug, resting it on his knee. “Because there’s always been a girl like that,” he said. “When she dies, the next girl takes her place.”

“But that’s crazy.”

Sighing, Giles sat back in his chair. “It sounds outrageous, I know. But it’s the way it’s always been and the way it will always be. How else will we keep the innocent protected from the things they don’t believe exist, if we don’t have a warrior, or warriors, who will fight our battles? Are you going to fight them with your needle and thread?”

Xander stood up abruptly and folded his arms. He glanced back over at the front door.

“I’m sorry,” Giles said, getting to his feet. “That was uncalled for. Ethan got under my skin rather more than I’d like. That doesn’t mean I should take it out on you.”

Shaking his head, Xander glanced around the room, then crossed to one of the book shelves and ran his finger along some of the battered spines. He turned back. “What about you? How are you going to help? Hit the vampires over the head with a pile of index cards, or a book?”

“Touché,” Giles said with a small smile. He skirted the coffee table, stopped a few feet from Xander and rested a hand on the edge on one of the shelves. “The index cards might be a bit of a stretch, but you’d be surprised how much of a weapon the right book can be,” he said. “The books on these shelves contain information that can be more effective than any gun or knife. Look how Ethan tried to undermine me by having that book delivered.”

“What did it actually say? I didn’t really understand last night.”

“It was an ancient book of prophecies that has never been wrong, so far as I’m aware. It said that the girl who’s coming will die. It told me when, and it told me who would kill her.”

“But you say that the girl always dies?”

“I did. And she will. Eventually. But I’m afraid knowing it intellectually, and accepting it emotionally, are two different things. Ethan knew that. I didn’t, until he arranged to have the book delivered. He wanted to rub it in my face, so I wouldn’t even try to help her when she comes.”

Xander glanced back at the bookshelves. “Can’t you use the book he gave you as your weapon? If you know who and when, then you’ve got important intel. You just need to work out why and where.”

Giles smiled faintly. “As I said, out of the mouths of babes.”

“Hey, I’m nearly sixteen. Not exactly a baby.”

“But it’s not so very old either, Xander.”

“Old enough," Xander replied. He glanced at his watch. “Shoot, I’ve got to go. I’ve got errands to run.” He glanced over at the glass on the table. “Thanks for the juice.”

“You’re most welcome.” Giles paused, “I meant it when I said sixteen isn’t very old. You should be thinking about what classes you want to take in school. What colleges you might aim for when you graduate, not considering whether to sign your life away.”

Xander shrugged “Isn’t it just the same thing? Choosing your classes and planning your future? I don’t really see the difference. My Master is a good man. I mean, he’s not a bad man.”

“I didn’t say he was.” Giles replied quietly.

“He provides a service. He doesn’t discriminate.” Xander’s free hand crept back up around his neck again. “The mayor’s got a nice new coat.”

“I’ll be sure to look out for it if I see him at the hustings,” Giles acknowledged with a small smile.

“I helped make it.” Xander curled his other arm around his waist. “He taught me to make a coat and set a sleeve. He taught me how to cut silk without ruining it. His dad taught him, and his dad had the business before that.”

“So it runs in the family. But he’s not passing the business on to his children?” Giles asked.

Xander shook his head. “He doesn’t have any.”

Giles raised an eyebrow, but after an instant’s thought decided not to say what came into his head. “Is he human?” he asked instead.

“I don’t know,” Xander replied softly.

“Are you going to accept the apprenticeship?”

“I don’t know,” Xander repeated.

“That’s a fair answer,” Giles acknowledged. He picked up a plastic bag that was sitting on the floor next to the coffee table. “Will you take this?” he asked.

Xander hesitated, just for an instant, then reached out and took the bag. He glanced inside and gasped. He looked back up at Giles. “The dress, but –“

"I thought you could take it back to your Master. I’d deliver it myself, but you would have to act as escort and that might be awkward for you. I’m not comfortable having it here and god forbid Ethan gets his hands on it again. I suspect your employer will know what to do with it.”

Xander gripped the bag tightly. “I’m going there now,” he said. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“Good.” Giles paused, wondering how far he could push without going too far. “Xander, I know you don’t really know me well enough to confide in me. But I want you to know you can come to me, if you need to talk. We’ve been relatively honest with each other and if you need an ear before you make your decision, then come and find me.”

Giles watched Xander’s knuckles whiten. “I’ll remember that,” he said.

“I hope you do.”

“I should go.” He lifted the bag. “Deliver this.”

“Of course. Give your employer my regards.”

Xander crossed to the front door and pulled it open. Giles winced at the brightness of the sunshine after the dimness in the flat. He still wasn’t used to Californian weather.

Stepping out into the courtyard, Xander stopped and turned back to Giles. “Was it her?” he asked.

“Was what, who?” Giles replied.

“The lady...the dress...that looked like your friend...was it her?” Xander took a deep breath. “I mean, was it her skin?”

“Ah. No,” Giles replied. “No it wasn’t. Ethan used the skin to create a simulacrum of her. It could have been anyone who suited his purpose. So, no, my friend is fine. I spoke to her this morning on the phone.”

“Good, that’s good,” Xander said quietly.

“Yes it is. It wasn’t her skin.” Giles paused. “But it could have been.”

Xander ducked his head and Giles saw the hand holding the plastic bag start to tremble. He waited and Xander finally looked him in the eye. “He told me I could trust you,” he said.

“Who?”

“My Master. It was the night when I met you on the way to work. When you followed me.”

“I didn’t...” Giles started, then stopped abruptly. “Alright, I did follow you. After overhearing your conversation in the library, to be frank I was curious.” He rolled his eyes. “I can see my sleuthing skills need some work.”

“Your cover story was good,” Xander replied. “I mentioned I’d met you and my Master seemed relaxed about it. He said that if I had a problem and he wasn’t around, I could go to you. At the time I just thought he meant because you were a teacher. But he knew, didn’t he? He knew you were more than that?”

“He’s obviously a man of many contacts, if he knew why I was here,” Giles acknowledged. “Thank you for telling me.”

Xander glanced at his watch. “I’d really better get going.”

“Goodbye Xander,” Giles said. He watched the boy cross the small courtyard, skirting the fountain before heading on up the steps. He continued to watch until Xander disappeared from view, before shutting the door.

He leaned back against the heavy wood and closed his eyes before opening them again with a sigh. Pushing himself off the door, he collected the half drunk glass of orange juice off the table and weighed it in his hand. He remembered the lessons that had been drummed into him from an early age. Lessons he’d run from. A Slayer works alone. Her Watcher is the custodian of knowledge. He moulds, he mentors and eventually he mourns her loss.

His training told him that the glass in his hand was always half empty. He had a feeling that Xander might tell him that it was also half full.


	15. Cracks in the World: Chapter 14

**Cracks in the World: Chapter 14**

 

The bell clanged once as Xander entered the shop, then a second time when he closed the door. The tailor, his Master, looked up from the tea tray he was setting out, one gnarled hand holding the silver tongs with a cube of sugar caught firmly in its grip.

“I wasn’t expecting you until later,” the old man said with a frown. He dropped the sugar into the fine china cup and laid the tongs down on the counter top. “Don’t expect to get paid any more just because you’re here early. I didn’t ask you to come early.”

Shaking his head, Xander held out the bag. “I came to give you this. I didn’t want to lose it, so I thought I should come by.”

“What would I want with a bag like that?” the tailor asked. “Plastic, it’s horrible stuff. So unnatural.”

Xander took a step forward and offered the bag again. “Please?” he said.

The tailor grunted and took it by the handles. Pulling his glasses down from where they’d been nestling on the top of his head, he peered into the bag. He looked up sharply, then put his hand inside and pulled out the contents. The dress unfurled, just as it had done in Ethan’s hand the night before. Xander remembered how the skin had looked luminous in the firelight, even before Ethan had given it life.

“How did you get this?” The tailor demanded. “Why do you have it?”

“Mr Giles gave it to me,” Xander replied. “The man who commissioned it, his name isn’t Dollfus. It’s Ethan Rayne. He’s a chaos mage. He wanted the dress made so that he could use the woman that we saw, that he created, to force Mr Giles to do something, or rather, not to do something he would have.” He rubbed the side of his face and glanced up at the old clock on the far wall. He could hardly believe that it was only 11:00. He felt like he’d been up for hours. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That probably doesn’t make sense. A lot of this doesn’t make sense. But Mr Giles stopped it, and he asked me to give you the dress. He thought you would be able to take care of it.”

The tailor smoothed his hand down the skin. Xander thought again about the way Ethan had caressed it, like a miser gloating over gold. The tailor skimmed his hands over it carefully, a craftsman checking for damage and flaws. When he was finished he looked up at Xander. “How did your Mr Giles know to give it to you? How did he know to ask you to give it to me?”

Xander scratched the nape of his neck. His shoulders hunched and he told himself to stand up straight. “I went to see Dollfus last night,” he said. “I mean, the man I thought was Dollfus. I told you I’d seen him and the woman in the dress at school yesterday afternoon. That Mr Giles was shaken afterwards. I couldn’t get it out of my head.” He was talking too quickly, but once he started, the words flooded out of him until he felt like he might drown if he stopped. “I know we talked yesterday, but then I made a mess in the workshop and I had all these questions in my head. I needed to ask Dollfus what he’d done. Why he’d done it. So I went to his house. It was creepy.” He paused, shivering. “I think he thought it was funny that I’d gone there on my own. He was all so polite and so clever with his sarcasm. Like he thought a dumb American teenager wouldn’t know when he’s being mocked. Then Mr Giles arrived. He saw me go into the house. He saw who answered the door and he was worried. He followed me in.”

“And there was a confrontation?” the tailor asked.

“Oh yeah. A really polite, Englishy confrontation. Like soldiers using razor blades instead of heavy artillery. Mr Giles made Dollfus, Ethan, look stupid. He made him give up the dress and told him to get out of town. Then he asked me to come by his apartment this morning to talk about why I was there and what I knew.” Xander looked the tailor in the eye. “You knew that Mr Giles knew about the weird stuff in Sunnydale, didn’t you? That’s why you said I could go to him if I was in trouble? Why didn’t you tell me?”

The tailor laid the dress carefully out on the counter top. “I’ve spent a lifetime acquiring knowledge. I’m not going to make you a present of it. You found out by yourself. Consider that the greater achievement.”

“But –“

“There is no but,” the tailor said.

‘There is no try’ flashed through Xander’s head, but he decided that it probably wasn’t the time for a Star Wars joke, however much he wanted the diversion. He swallowed hard, pushing back a hysterical giggle.

Sighing, the old man eased himself down into the guest armchair at the end of the counter. There wasn’t a second chair. “Tell me about what the chaos mage was trying to do,” he said.

“Mr Giles didn’t tell me everything, but the woman the spell created delivered a book to Mr Giles. It was a book of prophecies. One of them said a girl was going to die.” He walked over to the window and looked out into the perpetual gloom of the tunnels before turning around. “He wanted Mr Giles to understand that it was inevitable. The girl dying, I mean. So there was no point in trying to do anything about it. At least that’s what I think he was trying to do. Mr Giles said that Ethan’s plots are always too complicated for their own good.”

“So they obviously know each other.”

Xander nodded. “They knew each other when they were younger. He wouldn’t give me any details, but Mr Giles said he was a bit wild and Ethan encouraged him. To be honest, I can’t imagine Mr Giles being wild. I can’t even imagine him being a teenager.”

The tailor chuckled softly. “And so the cries of the young echo down the generations.”

“I guess,” Xander said. He very carefully didn’t say that he couldn’t imagine the tailor being young either. Nearly four years of learning at the old man’s right hand had taught him that there were some things better left unsaid.

“So did your encounters give you the answers to the questions you had?”

“A little bit. I mean, I know why Dollfus commissioned the dress and conjured up the lady so he had a delivery person who looked like someone he thought Mr Giles would trust. And I know Mr Giles knows about the weirdness of Sunnydale and he knew that Willow and I knew. That’s a whole lot of knowing right there.” He sighed. “But I still don’t really understand what drove Dollfus to go to all that trouble in the first place. I mean, if he felt so strongly about the prophecy being right, he could just have gone to Mr Giles and delivered the book himself.”

“I suspect that his motives had less to do with feeling strongly about the prophecy, so much as making a point. A cruel point, but one with enough truth in it to hit your Mr Giles very hard. Some people like to play games. The more elaborate the better, as in this case.”

“And if people like that decide to involve us, what happens then?” Xander asked. “Doesn’t that make us part of their game, even if we don’t know what they’re up to? If Mr Giles hadn’t seen through the game and refused to listen to Ethan, would that have made it partly our fault if this girl dies because he didn’t try hard enough to stop it happening?”

“Are you going to blame a gunsmith every time someone gets shot?”

“But I’m not a gunsmith,” Xander dug his fingernails into his palms and breathed through the almost overwhelming need to shout. “I work with a needle and thread. It shouldn’t be dangerous.” He let his hands relax, and he had a brief flash of strained seams on tweed pockets and Mr Giles’ hands bunched into fists. “It really shouldn’t be dangerous,” he finished quietly, his eyes on the floor.

“You made a coat for the mayor?” the tailor said suddenly and Xander looked up, confused.

“You know I did. Well, we did. He put in an order and we made his coat.”

“You have no problem with that?’

“It was a coat. I don’t understand?”

The old man leaned forward in his seat and Xander resisted the urge to step back. “So you don’t feel responsible for any wrong doing that the mayor does when he is wearing the coat?”

“That’s different. The coat is just a coat.” Xander replied. “This dress was part of a spell designed to cause harm. It was...it was cruel. The spell couldn’t have happened without the dress. We made the dress. We gave him the ingredient he needed for his spell.”

“So because I made the dress, you are saying I’m to blame.”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Xander threw up his hands “I don’t know.”

“And because you helped me, are you also to blame?”

“I don’t know,” Xander repeated. “Maybe.” Wandering over to the door of the workroom, he brushed the curtain aside. The sound of the brass rings clattering on the pole was strangely comforting. He fastened the curtain to the wall hook and stared into the room that had been a second home to him for years, before turning around to look at the tailor. “Everything used to be so straightforward,” he said softly." I came here and worked. You deducted the money to pay back the mayor. You helped me save the rest and told me it was okay not to tell my dad you were paying me a bit extra. You’ve put up with me and taught me to do so much. You’ve grumbled at me when I screwed up and showed me again how to do it right. I used to come here and work, and go home, and go to school, and hang out with Willow and Jesse. It all used to be so straightforward.”

“And now it’s not?”

“Now it’s not.” Xander echoed.

“You’re growing up. You were such a scrubby little boy when you came to me. All elbows and knees and a tongue that got you into trouble when you didn’t mind it,” the tailor said with a faint smile. “You’ve grown up in the last four years. Grown into yourself. But now you’re facing another phase. Adulthood is not the answer that every child thinks it will be. It just brings its own set of confusions and questions. Things were never straightforward here.”

“I know that, but-“ Xander interrupted.

“There is no but, remember? For every hem you learned to sew, I sewed a skin. You saw me do it, but you simply didn’t understand what you were seeing. Not every skin is used for some dark purpose. Sometimes a coat really is just a coat, no matter what the material it’s made from. You can buy a leather coat from several stores in town. Is it so very different? But I run a business, just as my family has done for generations. I provide a service. I do not discriminate. I do not judge my clients.”

Xander heard his own words to Mr Giles reflected in the tailor’s reply. He wasn’t sure if it made him feel better or worse. “I don’t know if I can do that,” he said finally.

“Not judge?”

“It’s always going to be in the back of my mind, isn’t it – the urge to ask why? I’ll want to know why they want something made with one of the skins and I don’t know what I’ll do if they decide to tell me. I don’t know what I’ll do if they decide it’s none of my business. And...”

“And what?” the tailor prompted.

“It sounds stupid,” Xander replied. “I finally realised that each skin comes from someone. I mean, I’ve always known, even at the start, but it was just part of what you do, just the same as when you work with wool, or silk, or cotton. As long as we treated the skins with respect, it didn’t really get to me. But I ruined one last night. I spilled the oil because I couldn’t get stuff out of my head. That wasn’t respectful.”

“No, it wasn’t,” the tailor agreed.

"And these last days, seeing her, it, the woman Ethan created, I guess it really hit me.” He glanced back into the workroom before looking back at the tailor. “I didn’t get much sleep last night."

“Then you have a decision to make.”

“I know.” He studied his sneakers and then looked up. “I guess I’ve already made it. I guess I made it the minute I decided to visit Dollfus last night. I can’t take up the apprenticeship. I know you’re probably mad because you’ve put all this time and effort into training me, and now you’re going to have to start again. And I know I still have to continue working until the debt to the mayor is clear and I will. Please... please, just don’t ask me to work with the skins,” he finished quietly.

“Would it help if I told you that the debt has been paid for over a year?” the tailor replied.

“What? But why didn’t you tell me?”

The tailor settled in his chair. “Because I’m a selfish old man who finds personal change difficult. We’ve got used to each other, you and I. You’re a good worker. I knew at some point we would have this crisis. That you would have to reconcile both sides of my craft in your head, if not in your heart. But I had hoped that we would get over it lightly and move on. I suppose that is another thing we can blame the chaos mage for. For making you doubt my craft, as well as your own future.” He curled his lip. “I think if Mr Rayne returns to Sunnydale, your Mr Giles isn’t the only one who will be waiting for him. I believe he won’t find me as accommodating as he did this time. I am not without influence in some quarters of our town.

“So you’re not mad?” Xander asked, hating how tentative he sounded.

“Sad? Yes. Disappointed? Possibly. Angry? No. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you’ll discover that anger is not particularly productive.”

“So what happens now?”

“Now you go and tell your Mr Giles that you have fulfilled your task and delivered the dress to me. Whatever else you might tell him is up to you.”

“He’s not my Mr Giles.”

The tailor inclined his head slightly. “You are right, of course. He belongs to his Slayer.”

“His what?”Xander asked.

“The girl who is on her way. The one who’s destined to die. That is her title. She’s the Slayer.”

Xander looked at him, eyebrows raised. “You know about her, too? Mr Giles wouldn’t really tell me anything about her, apart from that she killed vampires and demons.”

“I suspect Mr Giles is a cautious man, which is understandable.”

“I still think it’s crazy,” Xander replied. “Expecting one girl to fight against everything that’s out there on her own.”

The tailor shrugged. “Who says she has to fight alone? Just because it’s always been that way, doesn’t mean it can’t change.”

“That’s what I told Mr Giles about the stupid prophecy,” Xander exclaimed. “The future hasn’t happened yet, so how can it be set in stone?”

“Then we are in accord.” The tailor nodded.” Now go and deliver your message, then spend the day in the sunshine with Willow, before you are cooped up in a classroom again.”

Xander looked around the shop, at the countertop that he’d polished countless times, at the tea tray with the cup of tea cooling in the fine china cup and at the magical mirror in the corner. His work jacket hung neatly on the peg by the entrance to the workroom and, past the pulled back curtain, he could see the old treadle sewing machine with his stool and empty workbasket next to it. The tailor’s dummy stood at the end of the work table, draped in blue silk. He counted off the shelves – ten running from floor to ceiling on the left wall, each divided into four cubbyholes and lined with green baize, holding every imaginable grade of wool and linen, cotton and silk. On the right wall, the same number of shelves high, but only divided in two and lined with blue silk that cradled the tailor’s special fabrics. His skins.

He turned to the tailor, his Master, who had taught him and watched him grow up. “What will you do?” He was surprised to hear the tremor in his voice. “You can’t do all the work on your own.”

“I managed before you came along and I will manage again.” The old man hauled himself to his feet. “Eventually I will employ another boy and the process will begin again.”

“I...” Xander stuttered to a halt. He had no idea what to say.

“Go, before I lose patience with you. I have work to do and with all this talking, my tea will be cold.”

“Yes, sir,” Xander said.

The tailor chuckled. “If only you had been that obedient when you were twelve,” he said.

“Yes sir,” He took a few steps towards the door, then paused, his hand on the handle. “Can I come and see you sometimes?”

“I don’t know, can you?” the old man asked.

“I don’t know.” Xander replied.

The tailor nodded. “It’s alright not to know. It just means you’ve got some things left to learn.”

“Yes sir,” Xander repeated.

He opened the door. The bell rang once and he turned around, but the tailor was tinkering with the items on the tea tray, his gnarled hands hovering over the silver tongs and the little Chinese jar that housed his lemon slices. The pale pink dress lay draped across the counter, its folds hanging gracefully over the polished wood. It was beautiful and he felt an impulse to cross the floor of the shop, just to touch it one last time. Shivering, he turned away. The bell rang a second time as he closed the door behind him.

The air was chill in the tunnels under the viaduct, in the cracks in the world. He drew his jacket around him and started walking. He crossed the open space where the bonfire always burned and heard a dog barking somewhere in the distance. Looking back, he saw the light go out in the front of the tailor’s shop, leaving a faint glow that came from the lamps in the workshop. Hunching deeper into his jacket he turned away and followed the brick tunnel wall that led to the outside. When he stopped to look a second time, the curve of the tunnel meant the light could no longer be seen.

Xander turned his back and started walking. He had a message to deliver to Mr Giles and Willow to find. Then he had the rest of the day to ponder what might happen next.

 

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read this. If you are interested there is a sequel to this story, which takes up the action more or less where Cracks leaves off. Click on the little arrow linky thing below which will take you through to the next part of this series, which is called The Beating of the Bounds.


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